NC-17, do not read if underage.

Usual Disclaimers.

Mistress 10/21
by Amperage



     The hotel room was quiet and inviting.  Below him, sparkling
in the darkness, DC was rife with problems.  Homeless people
mumbled and huddled in shelters.  Gangs prowled and preyed upon
each other, upon wanderers unlucky enough to stumble into their
paths.  In homes children went to bed hungry or full.  Couples
argued and hated each other or made love and luxuriated in the calm
of post orgasmic bliss.  It was all one in the darkness and the
sparkling white light, the orange of lit streets and movement of
traffic.
     Fox Mulder dropped his overnight bag onto the solid, oaken
lowboy.  He would regret not grabbing a suit.  He would regret it
in the morning, because even though no one else in the entire
Bureau would notice that he wore the same suit twice, Scully would.
Her eyes would rake over him with concern, the awful concern that
made his gut twist and his balls draw up into his abdomen.
     But he hadn't had the energy to get one.  He had a new shirt
and a new tie and clean underwear.  The hotel would provide a
toothbrush and a razor.  There was a coffee pot and a hair dryer.
On the desk, in a folder, there would be a room service menu and a
list of "erotique" movies that could be ordered for the television
by calling a certain number.  
     He could not go back to his apartment.  He could not stand to
go back to his apartment.  It terrified him and he did not want to
think about the long shadows and the silence and the cold.  
     So here he was.  Standing in a hotel, staring out the window
at the darkness of a city that crawled beneath him.  Murders and
robberies and rapes.  Children died and screamed, trapped in secret
hells.  He pressed his face against the cold glass, thinking of it,
trapped in private misery.  Somewhere down there, out there in the
darkness, somewhere a someone who had killed Tanny still prowled
and no one knew his name.

     He did not order any high class smut after all.  Just a
cornish hen, probably a Christmas left over, with broccoli and wild
rice, a salad with blue cheese vignagrette and rolls.  Tea to
drink.  No.  No wine, thanks.  
     He ate it as though it were paste, sitting cross-legged on his
bed, staring at the television set that had been tuned to the
Cartoon Network when he came in.  He forgot to get the remote off
the top of the set when he turned it on, and now that he was
settled it just seemed like too much trouble.  Besides, he liked
Scooby Doo and Johnny Quest.  Okay, at least he didn't have to
think to follow the jerky, bright animation across the screen.
Besides, his learned response to those shows was comfort.  Curled
up on the couch with Samantha, under a heavy blanket, early on a
Saturday morning.  Nothing could ever hurt them.  And Sam shut her
eyes at the scary parts.

     He put the tray in the hall and then stood under the hot,
steaming needle shower a long time, feeling the water soak deep
into his skin, finally he fell into the bed, feeling the soft
boiled cotton sheets against his skin in a welcome, innocent kiss.

     "Hey."  Scully hung up her coat.  "Where were you last night?"
     Mulder shrugged.  He actually felt good.  A good night's
sleep.  Unafraid.  A hotel wake up call and bright DC sun.  "I was
out."
     "Out?"
     "Out."  He replied mildly, blinking at her. His expression
clearly read that where ever he had been it wasn't any of her
business to ask.  Scully blinked.  
     "Agent Lewis is coming down around 8, been assigned the job of
doing Bonet's background."
     Scully tried to remember who on the task force Lewis was.  The
little brunette.  Oh.  "She wasn't?"
     "She wasn't."
     A nod.  "You want anything?"  She asked, getting her coffee
mug.  
     Mulder considered.  Dug around in his pockets and dropped a
dollar bill into his mug.  "Donut Sticks."  He asked.
     "You aren't getting change on this.  You know this right?"
     Mulder grinned, went back to reading his report.
     
     Lewis was singularly helpful.  A young agent who was obviously
torn between their exalted ranks and the gossip she had heard. 
Mulder delighted in toying with such agents, keeping them right at
the edge of jumping out of their chairs and running through the
basement halls, screaming.  Scully thought it was as cruel as
teasing a cat by putting boots on its feet, but kept her mouth shut
and let him toy with his new mouse.
     Lewis had her information.  She had her records and extensive
notes on taped and transcribed interviews.  Perfect and neat. 
Unfortunately she had little idea of the kind of things that Mulder
considered important.  He finally gave up on tracking anything from
her impressions and tossed her out of their offices around 10.
     
     "Did you honestly expect her to have caught any. . .
intonations?"  Scully asked.
     Mulder shrugged.  "You do."
     "I'm a trained pathologist.  Did any of your other partners?"
     Mulder reflected.  "Jerry never.  Reggie already knew the
game."
     "What are you looking for beyond the obvious?" 
     "This guy didn't just come from the head of his god fully
formed.  The murders indicate that he has a great deal of control. 
He's not inexperienced, he's not immature. He's smart.  There's
never *any* indication of panic.   And it's very specific.
     "Except for Martin, if you're right."
     "I'm right."  Mulder said absently.  "That was. . .that was.
. .he's dominating.  That murder was a domination of the task
force.  Showing us that he can do whatever whenever and that he
knows everything.  And, possibly, he knew that I would catch it. 
So we'd be squabbling among ourselves.  Divide and conquer. . .
where was I?"
     "Our UNSUB doesn't panic."  Scully tossed in helpfully.
     "Oh."  Mulder blinked.  "This is something that's been
building a long time.  There has to be some hint of where it was
building.  Doesn't there?"
     The question, Scully realized with a start, was *not*
rhetorical.

     

     Mulder got the feeling he'd probably need a pillow to sit on
when this was all over, because his ass was about to be reamed up
one side and down the other.  He took the seat Skinner indicated,
suppressing a very real desire to duck his head and stare at his
wingtips.
     "Agent Mulder, having reviewed your reports and your records
for the past three weeks, at Agent King's request."  Skinner nodded
towards the SAC. "I have found various irregularities."
     "Yes sir."  Mulder swallowed and listened as Skinner
delineated paperwork turned in late, a report misfiled, a voucher
unreturned.  The complaint of a person Mulder had interviewed. 
There was the case of Mulder's injuries and the question of what
Mulder had done to deserve it.  Skinner hammered away at small
details mercilessly, pointing out small item after small item. 
Mulder's only opportunities for communication came in the form of
"yes sir."  "It won't happen again sir." and "Understood sir.  I'll
amend that, sir."
     Skinner's voice was harsh and unrelenting and never even
touched on the Bonet case except in the most roundabout way. 
Mulder suffered through it, quite aware that Skinner had yet to
slide any reprimands across the desk for Mulder to sign.  Aware
that any and all paperwork changes would take him perhaps thirty
minutes to correct.

     Mulder glanced at his watch.
     "Is there some engagement that you made previously?"  Skinner
asked, staring at Mulder.  Mulder shrugged and played along. 
Skinner had known Mulder had an appointment with Crane at this
time, had told him not to reschedule.  Had told him it would be
fine.
     "Uh. . .yes sir.  With Dr. Crane."
     "You didn't reschedule?"  
     "No sir."  Mulder swallowed, waited while Skinner rained abuse
down on Mulder's head for not rescheduling the appointment with his
shrink.  
     "You may go, Agent Mulder.  Please come back to my office
tomorrow morning at 9."
     "Yes sir."
     "Dismissed.  You will bring corrections on all paperwork that
I asked for."
     "Yes sir."
     Mulder left, swallowing, feeling the blood drain back into his
body.  The secretary gave him a glance as he let air out of his
mouth in an expression of relief.  The director had just spent
thirty minutes reaming Mulder out and yet Mulder was acting. . .
relieved?

     Skinner waited until Mulder had cleared his outer office,
staring silently at King.  When the second door slammed, he took of
his glasses and stared at his old friend.  "Neal, we've been
friends. . .what? 10? 15 years?  It must be 15 years now.  You've
always been a damn good agent.  It's been a pleasure to be your
friend and to be your coworker and now to be your supervisor.  You
asked me to look over the case.  To review Mulder's work."
     King blinked.  Skinner had just dedicated a half-hour to
reaming Mulder out.  Obviously, Skinner's golden boy was not so
Golden.  Things *might* be going in his direction.
     "Mulder can be arrogant.  He can be obnoxious.  He can be
extremely eccentric, and I'm well aware of the fact that he doesn't
always play well with others. I just took him to task on all those
flaws, and I even threw in how he manages to turn what should be
minimal amounts of paperwork into the stygian stables with his
cases."  Skinner sighed and leaned forward.
     "Neal, there were three or four men whom I could have chosen
to lead this task force.  Whoever solves this case, if it is solved
quickly and well, has a shot at a directorship.  We both know that.
I chose you.  However, I already knew who the analyst would be
before I even thought about choosing a task force leader.  And that
person was Fox Mulder.  He's good.  In fact he's the very best
person for this job.  I chose most of the agents on the task force
for their quality and for their ability to ignore the myths that
have grown up about "Spooky" Mulder.  You've always worked well
with Mulder."
     King shifted uneasily in his chair.  Things were not going as
he had expected.  Not at ALL as he had expected.
     "Mulder put forth a perfectly presentable reason for the
killing.  In fact, he was the only person qualified to put forth
behavioral theories on the motivation of the killings.  His work,
aside from procedural problems, has been perfect.  And yet,
yesterday, you came into my office to complain."
     Skinner took a deep breath, paused.  Rubbed his eyes.  "Neal,
I know you don't have any personal problems with Mulder.  You
wouldn't be the leader of the task force if I thought you had any
problems with Mulder.  I've reviewed his analyses of the events and
I find absolutely *no* evidence of any irregularities in Mulder's
work.  In fact, it's brilliant.  He understands this case almost
preternaturally.  So I'm left to wonder *why* you aren't accepting
him and what the problem is.  
     "The only conclusion I can reach is that there are too many
loose ends and too many problems if you accept that the killer read
Mulder's profile and chose a victim according to it.  That you
don't think you could handle or control the situation if Mulder is
correct."  
     Neal shifted in his seat and wondered why the room was so hot.
This was most definitely *not* the way this meeting was supposed to
be going.
     "Now, I have several options at this point.  I could make
Mulder head of the task force and there are some who would do that.
However, I don't need Mulder as head of the task force.  I need
Mulder as an analyst.  He's qualified to lead a task force.  He's
got the rank and training and experience.  But he needs to write
the analyses, I think we all know that.  There is also the fact
that I am *supposed* to be tapering off Agent Mulder's assignments,
rather than increasing them, due to some psychological difficulties
he is experiencing.  Making him the leader of a task force is
definitely *not* tapering off his assignments."
     Neal found the strength to nod.
     "So I have a couple of other options.  I could choose someone
else to lead the task force.  I don't like changing horses in
midstream.  I would rather keep you.  But I cannot keep you as
taskforce leader if you're out of your depths."  Skinner stared at
King unblinkingly.  "Are you out of your depths, Neal?"
     King swallowed, tried to find his voice.  Tried and tried
again.  "No. . .no. . .I mean, no sir."
     Skinner nodded.  "Then I will assume that you will accept the
advice of your analyst?"
     "Of course."
     Skinner nodded again.  "Neal, this case reflects not only on
you but on me and on our department and on the Bureau.  If you
can't handle it, I want to know now."
     "No.  No sir.  I can."
     "I'll be watching this closely, Neal."
     King nodded.
     Skinner took a deep breath, exhaled, let his shoulders slump. 
Put his face in his hands for a moment and then stared at King. 
"Agent Mulder has been seeing Dr. Crane every day.  She wants him
placed on a waiver or given involuntary leave.  I cannot spare
Mulder from this case.  I want you to make sure that Mulder is not
put under any unnessary stress.  He is not to be relieved of any
normal and routine duties related to the case, but he does not need
any. . .avoidable stressors at this time.  Do you understand?"
     King swallowed.  His position in this case was now made
abundantly clear by this last conversation, even more than
Skinner's quiet, confidential dressing down had made it.  Mulder
was an unvarying constant.  Mulder was the prize and the important
one.  This might make King's career, push him to top, but he was
replaceable.  Mulder was not.
     "Yes.  Of course."
     Skinner nodded.  "Accepting that Agent Mulder is right.  I
assume, from your previous reluctance to accept his view, that you
completely understand the difficulties this raises for the Bureau."
     "Someone has compromised our case files.  The killer or
someone close to the UNSUB, has access to the profile."
     "A profile that Mulder wrote and hand delivered; he did not e-
mail it.  A profile that has been seen only by 10 persons,
including the President."  Skinner said sharply.
     King swallowed.  
     "The OPR will be investigating the case, to find any security
leaks."  Skinner's voice was tired.  "You need to have at least 4
agents covering it.  If you can't spare the agents, I'll give you
four."
     "Yes, please."
     Skinner nodded.  
     "We've got to assume that the UNSUB has access to all
records."  King said, already exhausted by the thought of what that
entailed.
     Another nod.
     "We'll start circulating only hard copies, numbered, which are
not to be copied."  King recited numbly.  Skinner put his glasses
back on.
     "Neal.  I'm glad you're able to handle this.  I'll see you
tomorrow.  I'll be in attendance at tomorrow morning's team
meeting."
     King opened his mouth to say that no meeting had been
scheduled then shut it.  "Of course."  It was an order and a
dismissal, and King knew it.

     
     
     
     

     
     

     "How did the meeting with Dr. Pandya go?"  Crane was watering
an ivy hung in her small pre-fab window when Mulder arrived.
     "He gave me a prescription for TofranilPM and Klonopin."
     "Are you taking them?"  Crane did not turn from her watering.
     "Yes."  Sullenly.
     Crane finished her watering, put down the small, ornamental,
brass can and edged to her desk.  Part of EAP were in portable
buildings, overcrowded, and as such, most of the staff were slammed
into tiny offices.  The promise was a new annex.  But who had money
for EAP when there were real criminals out there?  EAP was for
wimps and goldbrickers and loons.
     "So.  Do you think it will help?"  Crane's voice was soft,
pulling Mulder's file out of the stack.  She had finally bothered
to get his old records out of storage.
     "I don't know.  The panic attacks maybe."
     Crane got a pen, nodded.  Sighed.  Leaned back and observed
him carefully.  "You've never reported panic attacks in the past."
     "No."
     "So I take it they're a new symptom?"
     Mulder shrugged.
     Crane gave a small nod.  "I heard there's a showdown in VCS. 
The division ain't big enough fer' the two of you."
     "It's nothing.  Internal politics."
     "Who's going to win?"
     "There's not going to be a winner or a loser."  Mulder shook
his head.  "I like King.  King doesn't think I'm a kook.  He
respects my work."
     "But I hear you differ widely in your interpretation of the
Martin murder."
     Mulder wiped his face.  "Skinner's not stupid."
     "What does that mean?"
     "It means he's the AD.  He'll handle it.  I just do my job."
     Crane blinked, shrugged.  "Okay.  You don't sound too
worried."
     "I'm not."  Mulder stared, bemused.
     




     "Secrets will out."  The message was simple, sprawled in
perfect plate script across a blank sheet of paper.
     Mulder blinked, staring at the message Scully had already
dropped into an evidence bag. 
     "It was in my purse."  She reported, indignant.  "I left my
purse locked in here when I went to a meeting.  It stayed in here
until around 11:30.  I was in the toilet."
          Mulder dropped into his desk.  Blinked.  His chest hurt.
He wrapped an arm around it, loosely, as though it weren't
important.  The bastard had come into their offices and loosely
dropped the note.  Checked out what kind of tampons his partner
used.  Probably perused his porn collection.  Maybe played DOOM on
the computer.  Oh fucking hell.
     He knew the killer had access.  He knew that.  He knew that so
fucking well. But this guy couldn't be happy with knowing that.  No
he intruded on things that Mulder. . .hell, Mulder was pretty sure
that it was something a husband didn't intrude on. . .he wanted to
be inside every part of his life.  Did he go through Mulder's
underwear when he was home, checking to see if his good boxers had
holes?  Did he check to see if Mulder had a rust problem in his
toilet?  Did he know his prey preferred Grey Flannel cologne and
contrary to bachelor expectations, knew how to cook?
     Mulder swallowed hard.  Closed his eyes.  Wished like hell
he'd taken the Klonopin Pandya'd prescribed.  No.  Gotta have that
fucking edge.  Dog eat dog world out there.  Didn't want to be
stoned.  
     His face was flushed.  This was getting real old, real fast. 
He kept his breathing under control.  Focused on the very real fact
that he was not dying,  that this was something he'd gone through
before and probably would again and that it wouldn't kill him. Oh
god it felt like it would.  Hot waves and cold waves and his body
pumped adrenalin like oil.
     He opened his eyes to see Scully staring concernedly at him.
"I'm okay."  He whispered, panting.
     "Oh yeah, right."  She snorted.  "Didn't Pandya give you a
tranquilizer with those antidepressants?"
     Mulder chose not to answer that question.  Just swallowed and
considered a calendar Scully had hung up for 1996.
     She went and filled a glass with water.  Put his hands around
it.
     "I am so sick of this."  Mulder managed, drinking.
     Scully smiled, brushed wet bangs away from his face.  "I know.
There are people trying to help you.  Did you bring your
tranquilizers?"
     He shook his head.
     "Okay.  Just drink that.  When you feel better we'll go eat. 
Can I take this down to Henderson?"
     "I'll be okay."
     "Okay. I'll be right back."
     Mulder rubbed his shoulders, tried to figure out who the hell
the killer was that he could just waltz into their offices whenever
the fuck he felt like it.
NC-17, do not read if underage.

Usual Disclaimers.

Mistress  11/21
by Amperage



     The upholstery tassel was soft against his flesh.  He twisted,
feeling it draw unfamiliar sensations against his skin.  Tanny's
laugh was warm.  "Be good.  Be very good.  I'm aching to use my
paddle.  I got a new paddle."  
     There was not far he could move, tied to the table and an
armchair.
     The upholstery tassel fell against his navel.  He heard Tanny,
up, moving.  The rustle of taffeta.  A door.  Not a normal door. 
Refrigerator. . .no.  Freezer.  
     She came back and the clink was crystal.  "Are you a good
boy?"
     "I try to be, mistress."
     "You try very hard.  That's true."
     It pressed against his mouth.  "Go ahead.  Take it."
     A nipple.  A cold, sweet nipple.  Ice Cream.  Praline ice
cream.  He sucked gently.  Her hand was hard on his hip.  "Harder."
     He sucked for life, nursed and sucked and then the nipple went
away.  Ice cream on his mouth.  He licked it off.
     "Was that good, Secret?"
     "Yes ma'am."
     "Well then."  The cold nearly made his back arch, but he
remembered her warning.  The warning that she had a new paddle.  He
did not so much as whimper as the frigid spoon ladled liquid ice
onto his nipple.  More china clink and then her mouth, hot, wet,
soft, fell upon him.  Her teeth were sharp and tearing as she
sucked and pulled and bit him.  
     "You're right.  That's very good."  Her hand, her now cold
hand fell upon his belly and she wiped the tassel away.  "I wonder
how it would taste somewhere else."  
     The cold drizzled down onto his cock, fell against the rigid
member and dripped onto his stomach.  More and more and it was
fucking cold.  His erection began to wither in the face of so much
frigid material.
     "You don't like the ice cream?"  Her voice pouted.
     "Yes mistress."  He pleaded.  "Yes.  It's just cold."
     "Oh?"  Her mouth again, on his cock.  Sucking, licking,
nibbling.  
     "I see.  You don't like cold things, Secret?"
     "I do."
     "But not on your cocknballs?"
     "I. . ." There was no way he could answer that.  "I like
whatever my mistress likes."
     "Then why did your hardness flag?"
     "I'm sorry, mistress.  I was not. . .focussing properly."
     "I see."  Tanny considered this a moment.  "I suppose I could
warm your bottom."
     He swallowed.  "Yes mistress."
     "Or I could teach you to focus when you're cold."
     "Yes mistress."
     "Which would you prefer, Secret?"
     He swallowed.  "I would prefer to learn."
     She patted his stomach.  "Very good.  I enjoy teaching you,
Secret."  Her hands went to the bonds at his feet, the bonds at his
wrists.  "Go to the armchair and kneel with your chest against the
seat pillows."
     "Yes mistress."
     He listened to her move, as she put things up, as she went to
the freezer again.  The faucet ran a moment.  Splashes.
     She came back.
     "Brrr.  This is cold."  She whispered.  "Spread your legs.
Good Secret."
     He felt the dollops of cold K-Y jelly against his bottom, her
fingers worked it into his rectum and anus, quiet and soft with her
work.  Gentle.  Her fingers massaged his prostrate.  
     "Are you ready?"  Her voice cooed.
     "Yes mistress."
     "Push out."
     And the cold against his waiting rectum was incredible.  He
obeyed his mistress.  Felt the cold invade him and yelped.  It was
small and hard and wet and it was ice.  Ice.  Ice. There was ice in
his rectum.  He nearly howled.  
     "Do you want me to take this out?"
     "I. . ."  She was playing with it gently.  Her hands were
warm.  Water dripped down to his balls.  curled around it, around
the hair.  
     "Your choice.  If it leaves you will be warmed.  If it stays
we will play together later.  It won't hurt you."  She reassured,
voice almost amused.
     He pushed his body down against the pillow.  Tried to control
the violent shuddering that tore through him.  And she slid the ice
dildo in and out.  





     

     "Agent Mulder."  He answered, glancing around the empty
office.  Scully had gone home at 5:30, portfolio crammed full of
papers, informing him that she could work in sweats just as well,
and besides, there was good smut on Cinemax tonight.
     "I wasn't sure you'd be in."  Skinner's voice.  
     "I'm working late."
     "Could you come to my office on your way out?"
     Mulder was tempted to tell Skinner that he wasn't leaving
until 7 or 8.  Then decided against it.  "I suppose I. . ."
     "I'll see you in 15 minutes then."  The phone clicked.
     Great.  Mulder threw down his pen, started collecting things
to cram into his briefcase.


     The secretary was gone.  Great.  Of course.  She left at 5 on
the nose.  Mulder tapped on the half-open door.  Skinner was
sitting at his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie MIA.  He glanced
up.  "Come in, Agent Mulder.  Have a seat."  He finished up what
was apparently an edit on a piece of paperwork.  "I spoke with
Director King.  I believe he now understands the. . .situation
better than he did before."
     "That I'm right and he's wrong?"
     "That's not how I would phrase it in front of King."  Skinner
said, leaning his head back, one elbow on the leather arm of his
chair, chin resting on the outer portion of his fingers. 
"According to Dr. Pandya you're on some pretty heavy drugs."
     Oh joy.  Great.  Just what Mulder needed.  A concerned Walter
Skinner.  
     "I'm on an antidepressant.  Pandya also prescribed a
tranquilizer, but that's optional."
     "And as such, not optioned?"
     "No sir."
     A nod.  Skinner shifted, templed his hands in front of his
face.  "How do you think the UNSUB is getting access to our files?"
     Mulder swallowed.  "I don't know sir.  But he is."
     "No ideas?"
     Mulder shook his head.  "No sir."
     "If you experience any problems dealing with King, you are to
come to me immediately.  Do you understand that?"
     "Yes sir." Mulder did indeed understand that.  
     "If there are any undue. . .problems on *your* end, I would
appreciate hearing about it, before you attack anyone in the
bullpen again."  Skinner's voice was droll.
     Mulder blinked. 
     "I'm not sure King would be as forgiving as I was."  Skinner
continued.  He was almost smiling.
     Mulder felt his shoulders slump.  Let himself almost smile
too.  "Yes sir."
     


     "Hi."  Scully's voice.  
     "Hi."  Mulder stared at the television set, trying to make
sense out of the muted images writhing about in full technicolor.
     "I just got a call from Alex Foster.  You're supposed to get
your stitches out Friday, but you haven't called."  It was a
pretext and a pretty thin one.  She could have addressed this at
work.
     "I'll call tomorrow morning."  Mulder promised wearily,
staring at the Sig-Sauer in front of him.  "I can probably set up
an appointment in the morning, after I see Crane."
     "You've got an appointment Friday?"
     "Yeah.  She's actually letting me skip a day.  I'm fucking
cured."  He closed his eyes.  "Skinner called me into his office
after you left."
     "And?"  her voice was cautious.
     "King's still task force leader.  But he's under strict orders
not to ruffle my feathers."
     "That's good, I suppose."  More cautiousness.
     "Yeah."  Mulder finished his bottled water.  "I'd get some
rest, Scully."
     "Why?"
     "It's been four days since Martin was killed."
     He heard her gulp.  "He's over due."
     "Fucking A."  Mulder agreed passively.  
     "Who do you think he's going after?"
     "I don't know."  Mulder stared at the figure of a woman, black
leather tracings her only raiment.  Her thin body arched in pretend
pleasure.  Tanny wore black leather.

     Black leather vest with a zipper.  Loose white silk shirt,
full sleeves that gathered at the wrist, dripping with french lace.
Small black skirt that zipped behind.  High black riding boots. 
And she pranced as she paced, the riding crop comfortable in her
hands.

     He took the klonopin, knowing it would be the only way to
relax enough to sleep, and lay in front of the TV, in and out of
hypnotic dazes, dreaming that a man whose face he could never quite
see, was in the apartment, looking at pictures of him and Tanny. 
At black and white surveillance photos of his firm round buttocks
clenched reddening in pleasurepain.   Dreaming that the man was
kissing him and holding him and reassuring him that Mulder was
indeed his slave and always would be.  That what Tanny truly owned
was now this man's own.  


     He was shivering, and there was a ring of white around his
mouth.  Scully felt her brow creasing, watching her partner sitting
at his computer, typing, cold and sweating.  
     "Good morning."  
     "Hi."  A soft kitten's voice. 
     He hadn't taken off his jacket and the room was hot.  Scully
put a hand to his forehead suddenly concerned.
     Mulder turned and pushed away from her hand angrily, stared at
her, face wrinkled with unexpected rage,  "get away," he snarled.
     Scully swallowed, stared at this, Her heart beat wildly. 
"Sorry.  I'm sorry.  You just. . .you looked like you might be
running a fever."
     Mulder stared at his partner a long time.  Consciously trying
to remove any trace of anger from his face.  "That doesn't give you
any right to treat me like a child.  To touch me."  He spoke fast,
in a rough, angry whisper.  
     "No.  It doesn't,"  Scully agreed, striving for a passive,
neutral tone.  "You're right.  I'm sorry.  Okay?"
     Mulder continued to stare at her.  He had begun breathing
through his mouth.  Ragged, upset breaths.
     Scully wanted to know if he'd taken any Klonopin this morning,
because she seriously doubted it.  He was acting tense and nervous
and far too brittle.  "I'm going to get some coffee.  Do you want
some?"
     He stared at her accusatorially.  "You're going to call
Crane."
     "No, I wasn't planning on it."  Although, now that he
mentioned it, it was a great idea. 
     Mulder's hands were in fists.   Scully forced herself to back
up, to find a chair by feel.  She did not want to take her eyes off
him.  
     "You look like you feel bad."  She said.
     Mulder stared at her, trying to draw hidden meanings.  "I'm
okay."
     Oh yeah.  Right.  Like hell he was okay.
     "I just didn't. . .I didn't get much. . .I didn't get much
sleep."  He said, his voice soft and defensive.  "I don't feel
good."
     Scully nodded.  "Do you have a fever?"
     "I don't know."  He breathed, swallowed.  "I don't know. I
don't think so."
     "Is it cold in here to you?"
     He nodded.  "I'm not sick."
     Scully nodded.  "Why don't you take some Tylenol and whatever
Dr. Pandya prescribed for you?"
     Mulder's eyes were again sharp and paranoid.  Scully
swallowed.  He stared at her, visually searched her.  He was mad,
she knew that.  Mad that he was in the weak position again.  But he
wouldn't say anything.  She hoped.  Or do anything.  Oh fuck, she
sincerely hoped he wouldn't do anything.  
     "We have a team meeting at 10."  He said as though this
excused everything.
     Scully couldn't see that this was a valid argument against
taking a small dosage of tranquilizer, especially now that King was
under orders to play nice, but she understood his position.  "How
about Tylenol?"  
     Mulder nodded.  "Don't call Crane,"  he said, very gently.  
     Scully knew that it had to be incredibly hard for him to say
it exactly as he did.  "I won't.  If you will, later, when you feel
better.  If this isn't just the flu."
     "Don't even joke about that."  Mulder snorted.


     King had figured out a way to let Mulder be right without
looking weak.  Mulder didn't care.  He uncapped his pen and doodled
a hangman game to play with Scully while reports were being read
and the new security measures were being put into place.  Scully
didn't even have to play it.  "Que sais je" she wrote in the
blanks.  "What do I know?"  She pursed her mouth into a smile. 
Skinner came in, late again, to peruse the situation.  Mulder
hadn't contributed much, had answered questions put to him about
his position on the killer.  Hadn't asked any questions.  The other
agents and King were all behaving quite relieved.  
     "Agent Mulder."  The voice came from the seat by the door. 
Skinner.  Great.
     "Yes sir."  Mulder turned towards the AD.
     "Do you think these measures will be enough to keep the killer
from reading our material?"
     "I don't know, sir.  I doubt anything will be."  He glanced at
King.  "But that doesn't mean we shouldn't try."
     "So you believe the killer is one of us?"
     "He has access to anything he wants.  That's all I'd be
willing to say."  Mulder swallowed.  
     "Do you think the killer could be the FBI client?"
     Oh shit.  That was something Mulder hadn't even thought of. 
and should have.  He knew the killer wasn't, but then he had access
to information that no one else did.  Oh fucking shit.
     "No sir.  I doubt our killer works for a government agency. 
He's more likely to be independently wealthy.  Tanny likely knew
him when she was a slave.  When *she* was the dominated.  I think
he feels so comfortable in what he's doing, because he does not
view her as the dominatrix, but rather as the submissive, because
that's the role he first met her in."  Good.  Good.  Good.  Fucking
A.
     Skinner nodded, satisfied with this.  He'd even given Mulder
a chance to embarrass the fucking hell out of King, and Mulder had
declined, which was probably the whole point.  
     Everyone waited, but Skinner had addressed the issues he
wanted to.  King swallowed and began again.



     "So why don't I just set you up for every day next week?" 
Crane asked, leaning back in her chair.  She was trying to be
patient.  Trying really hard.  But Fox Mulder made it difficult.
     He was sitting toying with a thin slice of geode he'd snatched
from her desktop.  He looked up.  "I'm sorry." 
     "Then talk to me."
     He turned the corners of his mouth up for a bare second and
then shrugged, went back to his complete absorption in the crystal.
     Crane considered him.  Employee Assistance Program.   Okay, he
was an employee and this was a program.  Assistance?  Yeah, right. 
He was uncooperative and stubborn and she wasn't doing him the
least bit of good.  
     "How are your stitches doing?"  She asked.
     "They come out tomorrow.  I could pick them out myself, I
guess.  But the last time I did I left some of one in." He wrinkled
his nose.  "And then the doctor had to dig around to find it.  I
just let the professionals cut the damn things now."  He touched
the barbs of the stitches, self-consciously. "Besides, this is my
face."
     Crane smiled at this.  "I heard you came out top dog in the
big showdown."
     He shrugged.  "That was a given.  Skinner's my supervisor."
     "How are you dealing with the panic attacks?"
     "I'm surviving them."  Mulder looked up.  "This isn't going to
turn into a whole behavioral-cognitive thing where I keep charts
and schedules, is it?"
     "I don't know.  I'm trying to find ways to help you.  If I
can't help you by letting you talk about whatever's bothering you,
then maybe I should just help you change behaviors."
     Mulder snorted.
     "What?"
     "Nothing.  You want to know something about what's bothering
me?"  He shrugged.  "The Klonipin gave me bad dreams."
     "Bad Dreams?"
     "I dreamed the killer was in my apartment all night."  He
looked up.  "He kissed me and he played with me."
     "Played with you?"  Crane blinked.  "How did he play with
you."
     "He fondled me."  Mulder shrugged, cheeks growing red. "He
kept saying I was his now."
     Crane stared at her patient, at this sudden, unexpected
confidence.  At this very real indicator that Fox Mulder should
definitely *not* be on the Bonet murders.  
     "Do you know why you would have that kind of dream?"
     Actually, Fox Mulder knew very well why he would have that
dream.  But it was not the answer he could give Crane.  "Because,
the UNSUB's fucking us over now.  He's dominating the FBI.  It's a
very credible threat that he would want to dominate me."  He
swallowed, slid his palm across the slick surface of the polished
stone.  "Is that normal?"
     "What, for the Klonopin to cause that kind of reaction?  I
know it's not unheard of.  I don't know statistics.  Does it
disturb you?"
     Mulder rolled his eyes.  "What do you think?  I'm here on a
day you gave me off, aren't I?"
     "Well, you can talk to Dr. Pandya.  It's not usual to give a
benzodizepine with a TCA, except for maybe a small amount of
Xanax."
     "Pandya had to do quick work, so he gave me a quick cure along
with a long one."  Mulder dismissed.  
     "What did you feel like?"  Crane attempted to get things back
on her turf. 
     "It felt like rape."  Mulder swallowed.  "It felt like I was
being fucking raped."





     His name was Christopher Godwin. The neighbors were standing
out on the communal lawn staring at the legions that were
descending on the narrow, privately managed streets.  "Says here he
was just starting his MA.  In European History or some such.  Rich
kid.  He came back home from Vail yesterday."  King told Mulder and
Scully as they entered the small condo.  Books, books, more books. 
Godwin had nice furniture, it looked like stuff a mom would picked
out, but books covered everything.   Mulder wrinkled his nose
suddenly.  The smell was everywhere.  The smell of the blood that
splattered the walls, the rich, conservative furniture.
     "Messy with this one, wasn't he?"  Mulder observed, staring at
the nicely framed prints on the walls of the hallway, at the blood
that had dried on their smooth, glass surface. 
     "Yeah."  King glanced back at Mulder as they walked down the
hallway. "His study was here." King pointed into one door.  "He's
here.  The bedroom, I guess."
     The body lay on top of a queen sized bed, cattycorner, to take
up as much room as possible. The sheets were the red of clotted
blood and Mulder did not have to guess that they had once been
another color, before this.  Godwin's face was open and blank.  His
wrists were crossed across the top of his chest, across the open
and gaping wounds.   He had been pretty.  Blonde hair, dark eyes. 
A beautiful face and mouth.  His physique was lithe, that of a
swimmer.  He had been beautiful.  Mulder felt a surge of jealousy. 
So far all the others had been older men, with love handles and pot
bellies and bald spots.  So far there had been no one with Mulder's
good looks.
     Christopher Godwin had been beautiful.  
     Blood on all the surfaces.  Blood on the mirrors.  Blood on
the white walls.  The smell was overwhelming.  Scully was talking
to the photographer even as she got a satchel from someone and
rifled through it for her meat thermometer.  King was ordering
lesser agents and Baltimore police around with sure, easy
efficiency.  Mulder just stood.
     Godwin had been beautiful.  He had money and wealth.  The
jealousy was a bitter taste in the back of Mulder's mouth.  Mulder
was nothing special.  He was a charity case.  Tanny hadn't needed
to go out of her usual circle for someone pretty and cute. 
     "Housekeeper came in and found the body."  King took the time
to inform Mulder.
     "He had a housekeeper?"  Mulder marvelled.
     "The ways of the wealthy."  King shrugged and gave Mulder a
good natured grin.
     If King was willing to act normally, Mulder definitely was
willing to go the extra mile and play nice back.  At least in this
case.  He returned the smile.
     Mulder glanced at his partner.  "Any guesses?"
     "He's cold but not reeealll stiff. . .today.  He's fresh." 
She returned.  
     Mulder nodded.  Someone came in with a body bag, only it
wasn't time for the body bag yet, and Scully began her usual
pathologist screeching about procedure and fucking things up and
things would be done right when she was the examiner, thank you
very much.  The crews were used to it.  That's how pathologists
were.  Any fuck ups were Scully's fault, not theirs.
     He wandered out of the bedroom.  Blood.  The carpet was
squishy with blood.  Okay, the human body has a couple gallons of
blood. . .Mulder tried to remember the last time he'd dropped a
gallon of milk and seen it smash.  That didn't. . .
     "There's entirely too much blood for one person?"  He asked
Scully hopefully, looking over his shoulder back at her.
     She looked up from her measurements.  "Yeah.  There's too much
blood." Her voice was unsurprised.  
     "So where did he get the extra?"
     "Especially around Christmas."  Scully replied.  "Blood banks
are usually low around Christmas."
     Mulder considered this fact, gravely declining the first
sarcastic comment that came to mind.  It was hard to be sympathetic
when he wished the guy were alive enough to kill.  
NC-17 material, including B&D.  Do not read if underage or you do
not like such material.

Usual disclaimers.

Mistress 12/21
by Amperage



     His office was calm.  Mulder stared across the untidiness and
for once wished for a tiny little cubicle in the bullpen.  Some
place with a divider instead of a wall, a place where his
photograph of Sam seemed naked and fragile.  Here it was just more
of the clutter and no one commented on it or made bad jokes.  His
I Want To Believe poster. Here it was just more clutter.  Max's
NICAP cap.  More clutter.  The photo of Toom's elongated fingers. 
Clutter.  The cardboard FBI seal he'd requisitioned as a joke,
surprised when he'd gotten it.  Clutter.  Meaningless clutter to
disguise the fact that he didn't have anything meaningful in his
life.  
     Tanny.  What had he been to Tanny?  He'd known their
relationship was that of one with power and one with out.  He'd
been happy in that.  But he'd always thought of himself as special.
Was that part of the trip for Tanny?  Make all her slaves feel
special, build up their self-esteems?  Was he just a job?  Did
someone out there pay her the difference for his sessions?  She
knew he needed to feel special with a woman, because he hadn't.  He
didn't.  Sex was just sex.  He closed his eyes.  Did the Cigarette
Smoking Man pay her, his thick fingers doling out hundreds to put
in the white paper envelope.  Had Reggie started it, seeing how he
went through women gaining nothing but the moment of physical
relief?  What had it been?
     There was nothing to be gained from this.  He had a job to do.
Mulder swallowed and pulled a form out of the stack.  Normal,
routine paperwork that had to be done.  He opened the file as he
searched around for a good pen.  And his eyes were suddenly drawn
to the slick surface of a photograph.  A photograph he remembered
seeing.  His bottom, his red, bruising bottom, and the long
aristocratic fingers holding a wooden brush.  


     
     He was in the office.  Scully had tried to call him on the
desk phone and the cell on her way over.  To tell him to pack it up
and go home.  To hear his voice.
     He was in the office but it looked like he was in orbit.
     "Hey."  She said, dumping her satchel and purse.
     Mulder started.  As though he hadn't noticed her.  "Hey."
     "It's already 5:30."  Scully informed him.
     "Yeah.  I know."  Mulder gave her a half-smile. "I've got
things to do. . .got to update my profile. . .I want to talk to
Godwin's parents. . ." His words trailed off.  He frowned.  
     "Why don't you pack it up and go home?"
     "Are you?"  He asked.
     Scully shrugged.  "I'd rather get this out of the way."
     "You finished the autopsy?"
     "Yeah.  The hacking and whacking anyway.  I've sent all the
lab stuff out too."
     Mulder nodded.  Small beads of sweat lined his forehead and
cheeks.  He looked perfectly awful.  "Crane called Skinner again. 
She's more insistent that I leave the case."
     Scully waited.  He would finish it for himself or he wouldn't.
     Mulder shrugged.  "I can't leave the case though.  Skinner
even talked to someone from Investigative Support about replacing
me, but even they admit I'm doing better work than they could."  He
swallowed, stared at nothing.  "I've got work I've got to complete.
Do you want to order something in?"  He looked up, hopefully.
     Scully had a diet shake in her desk that she'd planned on
having for supper.  But she stared at her partner and knew she
couldn't tell him no.  "Yeah sure.  As long as it's low fat."
     Mulder nodded.  "Sure."  
     She did not ask what had him so rattled.  Did not ask why he
was so preoccupied.  Mulder was grateful, bent over his desk,
eating the vegetarian chinese Scully had ordered for them both. 
Plain rice and stirfried veggies.  At least it was almost edible,
due to the peppers and the mushrooms and large amounts of soy
sauce.  
     He ate quietly, worked, tried not to think.  
     He would have to spend another night at a hotel.  That much he
knew.  He. . .no more of Pandya's Klonipin.  A hotel would be safe.
He didn't care what he had to pay.  He could not face his
apartment.  Remember what hadn't been a dream. 
     The voice in his ear.  "You're my secret now."  The feel of
warm hands over his genitals.  Had the others been touched and
fondled and teased as he was?  Was this part of the killer's
pleasure?
     He thought about calling Tower's widow.  If anyone would have
known she would have.  She had been forthright with him.  Surely
she would have mentioned anything threatening.  Tower had had no
reason to hide any intimidation from his widow.  
     Godwin had been on Christmas break, skiing in Colorado. 
Apparently no intimidation there.
     Mulder closed his eyes.  Godwin had looks.
     "What were your secret places?"
     "Where did you hide?"
     "Do you cry?"

     Godwin, from looks, from the outside, which could be deceiving
as Mulder well knew, but from what Mulder knew now, had not had
dark places.  Or was he just deceiving himself?  

     He had gone to the bathroom and been gone a long time.  When
he came back, Scully looked up at him.  He saw the careful,
profound concern in her eyes, behind the thin veil of reading
glasses.  "You okay?"
     "I'm fine."  Mulder swallowed.  "I'm fine."  He sat down,
wincing at the new bruises on his thighs.
     It was 7 when Scully finished, and she insisted that he leave
at the same time she did.  She watched him leave, watched to be
sure he did not double back. Mulder felt like a child, and frowned.
She had good reason, undoubtedly, but it still irked.
     He went back after she was gone, watched the night guard roll
his eyes.  Got stuff from his office.  A clean shirt and underwear.
He chose the Radisson.  Different hotels, different nights. Musical
beds.  There weren't a lot of tourists right now.  The desk
clerk gave him a government discount for the hell of it, and
upgraded him to the concierge floors for free.  Her eyes begged him
to tell her if he was on the outs with his wife for just one night
or for long term.
     Mulder smiled and ducked his head and walked across the
gleaming lobby to his elevator.
     

     He took the antidepressant without much thought.  Got the
remote and curled up on the bed in his underwear.  Curled up with
his chin to his knees.  
     "Secret.  You're my secret now.  You belong to me."  Hands
reaching and tucking and pulling his sweats down.  A hand against
the flat of his stomach.  "So beautiful.  So full.  You are so
handsome.  You're mine now.  Do you understand Secret?  You're mine
now."
     He tried to focus on the TV, to watch the flittering images,
but his mind relived the sensate feeling of hands stroking his
genitals, of the faceless creature showing him image after image of
surveillance quality photos, images stolen, evidence of long
plotting.
     The phone sat beside the bed.  It was a nice room.  Elegant
with a separate sitting area and a high comfortable bed and cream
colored walls.  Mulder pictured King and Scully coming in here,
with his body spread open, his eyes wide and unseeing.  Blood
slicking down the floors.
     What was the point of the extra blood at the Godwin site?  Why
had he done that?  Mulder considered that.  The gore was important.
Very important.
     He considered the phone.  Scully can you come up to the
Radisson?  I need to talk.  I need to tell you something.  Scully,
I fucked Tanneka Bonet.  I'm the FBI link.  Scully, I thought it
was something special, but now I'm not so sure.  Scully I'm going
fucking crazy and I've withheld so much evidence it's appalling. 
Scully, those notes you've been getting?  They're from the killer. 
Last night he was in my apartment, but I thought it was a dream. 
Scully, I'm going crazy.  Scully, I.
     Yeah right.
     The gore was important.
     The Evening News.  Godwin's college boy portrait and then his
father.  Mark Godwin.  A top thug with the CIA.  Great.  Mulder
turned up the sound, listened to the news reporter on Channel 5
delineate how this case fit into the Dominatrix murders.  The fact
that Martin was *not* a client still hadn't been released or
leaked.  Good.  Mulder expected some new, bright eyed agent to let
it slip in the next 24 hours, but for right now it was silent.  It
didn't really matter.  The killer knew.  Their UNSUB knew
everything.  It didn't matter what the press knew.  But it might
help keep down copycats.
     Oh yeah, that's a neat trick anyone can learn over the
internet.  How to vivisect someone and just have them look
surprised.  Mulder made a face.  Stared at the senior Godwin for a
moment.  Turned off the TV.  Called down to the Concierge desk for
something to drink.  Diet Coke.   
  
     Hello.  Hello Secret.  Hello.  A sudden movement and the
sheets were gone.  He was sleepy.  Brightness.  Wince. The pillows
were soft and wet where he had drooled onto them. A sharp sting in
his hip.
     He could not see.  Feathers.  Bird's wings on his face. 
Hello.
     He smelled a man's musk.  
     I'm Uriel. 
     Of course you are.  Warm flesh on uncertain skin.  Warm hands
rubbing his.  Something cold.  
     Oh God.  He wanted to move.  He couldn't move.  He couldn't
move.  His arms were heavy.  So heavy. Like lead.  He could feel,
but he couldn't move.
     Tanny's voice, from far off:  "I used to think that God
changes out people's souls.  I couldn't think how it could be fair,
that lives are so different. So God changed out the souls--left the
memories, but whatever was at center of the human spirit--he
switched them out at regular intervals."    
     He tried to lift his head.  Tanny?  Tanny?  You're dead.
     Warm hands.
     Warm hands, playing with cock and balls.  He wanted to vomit. 
His mouth was so dry.
     Wanted to move.  Couldn't move.  The mask made him want to
vomit.  He had a headache.  Make it stop. Make it stop.  
     Feathers in his face.
     The hands were warm against his flesh.  A mouth.  Down there.
Down there.  Don't play with strangers.  Don't let them touch you.
     Tanny held his cock between milkwhite teeth, laughing as she
took and swallowed his cum.
     Birds fluttered against his face.  He choked, coughed, could
not breathe.
     "Oh Fuck."  His head was against the pillow. Now, strong hands
holding his face.  It hurt his neck.
     Vomit.  Hot, spewing vomit.  Oh God.
     Rolled.  His face was in the vomit.  Oh God.  I won't do it
again.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry.
     "Secret, I think you need a spanking.  A good, hard spanking. 
The paddle or the belt, I wonder. . ."
     The pillow was silk and linen smooth and pressed his cock
against the softness.
     Secrets.  So many secrets.  Peel the label.  It's your name
first, Fox.  It's dark in here and wet and you can hear the bird's
wings.  
     Felt fingers and the sudden cold.  Cold.  Oh God.  It was so
fucking cold.  His arms.  He wanted to move.  His arms were numb. 
Like wooden blocks.
     Bird's wings fluttered and the rats ate them when they fell to
the aviary floor.  Dark.  Oh Dark.  Everything goes to the dark.
     Cold against his anus.  Cold in his rectum.  Cold and slick. 
Spanking.
     It hurt.  Oh God.  It hurt.  Please God.  Make it stop.  Make
it stop.  Don't let them touch you down there.  Strangers give you
candy.
     Rats eat the candy and leave the bird's wings.
     Fluttering in the cold.
     Cold.  
     IT HURT.
     He was patient.  Fingers now.  Fingers.  Pushing.  Pushing and
pushing.
     "Do you know who I am, Secret?"
     Uriel.  You're uriel.  With the bird's wing mask.  
     "I took Tanny in her time.  I take you.  I will keep you with
me."
     Under your wing.  Uriel sweeps us all under his dark wings.
     Flutter birds, flutter high.
     "I loved Tanny.  I love you.  Tanny wouldn't stay.  But that's
all right.  You're mine now.  You're not Tanny's anymore."
     Tanny.  Blonde hair.  
     He was prettier than the other one.  
     Uriel?
     It hurt.  Oh God.  Please.  It hurt.  It hurt and he couldn't
do anything.  Tanny stop holding my hands.  Stop it.  Make him stop
hurting me.  The birds are fluttering in my ears and I can't hear. 
It hurts, Tanny.  Tanny, please. Please make it stop.  I'm sorry. 
I'm sorry.  Make it stop.  Please.  I'll do anything you say. 
Tanny, all I can smell are the birds and the rats and the rats are
eating me. I'm alone.  Oh Tanny.  I promise, I'll be so good. 
     



     The clock said 7:47.  Mulder closed his eyes, opened them
again.  Felt panic rising in his chest. Oh fucking shit.  Work.  He
was. . .this wasn't his apartment.  7:47.  
     His mouth was dry, his head hurt, his heart was fluttering in
his chest.  The myriad of outer physical sensations returned at
once, in a terrifying flutter of perceptions.  His rectum hurt.  It
was slimy.  His face and hair were sticky with vomit.  His body
hurt.  He was naked.
     The memory of the hands returned.  
     The hands.
     Mulder put his head against the smelly pillow and stared as
the red light of numbers changed to 7:48.


     
     He huddled in the bathroom, on the cotton bathmat.  Stared at
his toes.  Oh God.  He had to get dressed.  He had to get. . .Last
night.  The killer.  It was all so dark.  A swirling of sensations
and he remembered birds.  Birds fluttering in the dark.
     Oh God he had to get dressed.  There was no physical damage. 
He was supposed to get his stitches out this morning.  He had an
appointment with Crane.  God only knew what she would want to do. 
He had to turn in his profile.  He had to. . .it was almost 8.
     He had to call in, tell them he was sick.  He'd. . .oh God. 
Just that he was sick.  Not Scully.  Don't call Scully.  Not King. 
He had to leave the bathroom and go into the sitting area.  There
was a phone.
     That could have been ten miles.
     Oh God, he felt heavy and fuzzy and it was all so odd.  He had
to pull it together.  Get dressed.  The. . .he hadn't been hurt.
     <<<Your name is Uriel>>>
     The dark angel with the fluttering wings.
     He hadn't been hurt.  There was no physical damage.  He could
be dead.
     <<<You're mine now.  You're my Secret>>>
     He had to get to that phone.
     
     
     Mark Godwin stared at the paper on Skinner's conference table.
Paper Lions.  Skinner was confronting a senior official with the
CIA with a paper lion and hoping it would hold.  He and King and
Scully.  Mulder. . .God knew where Mulder was.  He'd called
personnel at 8, sounding, according to the clerk who'd taken the
call, like he was about to puke his lungs up.  Running a fever. 
Dizzy.  
     Just what they needed.  Their analyst was home with the flu.
     Godwin was tall and powerful.  He matched bookends with
Skinner, a fact not lost on anyone in the room.  Both men were
balding, wore glasses and conservative suits.  Both men were former
marines.  But Skinner was not weighed down with grief.  Skinner did
not have shaking hands and he did not finger a thin gold wedding
band as though it were priceless.  Mark Godwin's eyes were swollen.
Big tough men don't cry.  
     "So I've got the Assistant Director of Violent Crimes.  The
head of the task force and the pathologist.  Where's the profiler,
your analyst?"
     "Agent Mulder is home with the flu.  He's promised to fax in
whatever he can later."  The last was a lie.  But Skinner said with
confidence and authority.  
     Godwin stared at Skinner curiously struck by that name.  That
was all Skinner needed.  Godwin's toes had been stepped on by one
of Mulder's quests to uncover conspiracy and corruption in high
places.  
     "Fox Mulder?"  He asked, frowning.
     Skinner exchanged a level glance with Scully.  Great.
     "Yes sir.  He's. . ."
     "He's one of your best, I know.  I'm glad he's on the task
force."  Said still completely distracted.  Eyes downcast.  
     Skinner let King outline their progress on the case, let
Scully discuss what they had learned from forensic science.  Godwin
listened attentively, absorbed and digested.  "Is there anyway I
can get hold of Agent Mulder?"
     "I'm not sure he's up to it. . .he seems to have a virulent
gastrointestinal bug."  Skinner said with an apologetic shrug.
     Godwin nodded.  Skinner wondered that Godwin did not pursue
it.  Then realized: Godwin didn't have to pursue it.  He simply had
to call an aide and he would have everything from Mulder's
telephone number to the profiler's shoe size and amount of cream
the man put in his coffee.  There were people who kept very careful
records on Agent Fox Mulder and Skinner was certain that Mark
Godwin had access to them.
     They said more inanities.  Things designed to comfort and
console a top official.  Godwin listened as he probably listened to
scores of inane reports from underlings.  When they were through,
Godwin rose.  Shook Skinner's hand.  "I lost my wife to cancer
eight years ago.  Chris was all I had left.  If you need anything. 
I'm here."
     The steel in his voice left no doubt what kinds of help he was
offering.  Not to anyone in the room.  Help that is not spoken of,
help that can be condoned only by star chambers and dictatorships.
NC-17 material, including B&D.  Do not read if underage or you do
not like such material.

Usual disclaimers.

Mistress  13/21
by Amperage



     Mulder had been driving all day.  Cruising the streets of DC
without end, staring at the people, stopping for gas and bottled
water.  He was not hungry.  He did not know where to go or what to
do.  It was aimless, this wandering.  He found himself at the
Vietnam Memorial and decided to do the tourist thing.  His father
had never gone to Vietnam.  Mulder was fairly certain of that.  He
was not certain of much about his father.  But he was certain of
that.  His father's work had been here.  On native soil.  
     There were men without legs and men without arms and women
without lovers and mothers without sons.  He was a son without a
father and there were other men like him here too.  But their
fathers had been dead for perhaps two decades.  Do some wounds
heal?  He wandered the sidewalk beside the gash of granite, in no
rush.  No one said anything of a government employee in his
wingtips and Armani suit and Burberry trench.  With his short, FBI
regulation haircut, and the small designer sunglasses.  No one took
any notice of him.  Of course, it was not crowded.  Not many
people, not today.  Not this Friday.  
     He watched a tall, bearded man hoist a small girl, not over 4,
to his shoulders.  A woman gave the girl a charcoal pencil and a
strip of paper.  The girl had to be guided to the right name.  Her
fingers touched names of the dead until she found the right place
to start.  
     Mulder swallowed.  He could not watch the little girl with her
dark hair and the big bright green ribbons braided into her hair. 
Not for very long.
     
     His car was cold.  
     Tanneka Bonet's owner.  She had been sold at 14, then trained
at 16.  Her owner had been a defense contractor.  The killer had
power in the government.  He knew Tanny when she was a slave.  
     Chris Godwin was the son of Mark Godwin.
     Mark Godwin of the CIA.
     Chris Godwin.
     The click was like a rifle retort.  Christopher Godwin one of
Tanny's clients?  Yeah, right.  
     But didn't Mulder *want* Chris Godwin to *not* be a client?
     But why would Chris be one of Tanny's clients?  Tanny. . .
Christopher Godwin?  She'd have told him to go play in a sandbox. 
But wasn't that what Mulder wanted?
     Chris Godwin didn't have the hallmarks or the reasons.  Blood.
Blood everywhere.  He'd been told.  The killer knew Mulder wouldn't
catch it.  
     Chris Godwin wasn't one of Tanny's.  The extra blood was to
show it was a staged production.  Not for real.  It was just to
play with Mulder's mind.  It wasn't anything.
     The blood was important, it was a necessary prop.  To tell his
play goer that this was indeed, a morality play.  It had nothing to
do with reality.
     Chris Godwin didn't have any reason to need Tanny. 
     Mark Godwin did.
     Fatherless sons.  Sonless Fathers.
     The sound of the bullet ripping through the house.  He had
been drugged, sitting in the harsh light with darkness all around. 
His father's scotch scented the room.  
     Mulder stared across the parking lot.  There was a secret
world that Mulder could never escape.  He thought he had opened it
because his sister had been kidnapped.  No, his sister had been
kidnapped because of his father.  Mulder could have gone his own
course.  But They would not have let him leave the circles he had
been born to.  His name on the folder under Sam's.
     But they would have let him think he lived his own life,
anyway.  
     But he had stayed in their circles, wearing blinders for most
of that time and they still kept him in blindfolds.  But he was
still there and always would be.
     Circles Mark Godwin knew.
     And it was in those circles that Tanny came from.
     Someone in those circles gave Tanneka Bonet Mulder's name.
     Mulder swallowed and reached into his pocket.  He didn't know
where Mark Godwin lived, but the FBI did.  And so did the Lone
Gunman.
     
     
     Mark Godwin was Tanny's client.  Perhaps.  Mark Godwin had
access to information that could help Mulder capture the killer. 
Perhaps.  
     But would he want to talk to Mulder?  
     Mulder wondered if the killer had a son.  His own father had
been. . .implicated deeply.  But he had tried to protect his son. 
In the end, he hadn't wanted Mulder hurt.  He'd let them take
Samantha.  But he'd spent his entire life regretting it.
     Deep Throat.  Mulder stared at the Cape Cod house that
belonged to Mark Godwin.  Deep Throat had seen in him some kind of
son.  
     The killer had never had a child.  
     Mark Godwin might be slime.  He might be honest.  Mulder did
not know.  But Mulder was hoping that Mark Godwin loved his son. 
He was gambling that Mark Godwin loved his son.  That Mark Godwin
would at least give him something.  Some bit of information.  
     He could be fooling himself.
     But Mulder was running out of choices.  His other choices were
death or bending his knee and giving in to the killer.
     He didn't like those choices very much.  He didn't fancy
become the killer's prize.  

     Mark Godwin turned into his culdesac and stared at the car
sitting beside his home.  His hand was on his cellular, finger
ready to speed dial a number that would take care of unwanted
guests.  
     Then he saw the dark hair and the uncomfortable posture of a
man asleep.  He saw Fox Mulder's face.  He saw Tanneka Bonet's
Secret sitting in the car asleep.
     
     Mulder was already awake when Godwin pulled into his own
driveway.  Awake and getting out of his car.
     "Director Godwin?"  Mulder said, striding across the winter
dead lawn.  He had his credentials.
     "Agent Mulder."  Godwin said, staring at the thin face and the
dark circles ringing blood shot eyes.  There were stitches that
needed to come out.
     Mulder held his credentials in his hand uncertainly.
     "I was told you were ill."  Godwin said flatly.  
     Mulder swallowed.  "I need to talk to you about your son."
     "I should have guessed that you would know."
     They stared at each other.
     "You also look like you're about to pass out.  Come in.  We'll
talk there."
     
     Mulder sat on the couch, stared at the pattern of carpet a
moment.  "Your son wasn't one of her clients, was she?"
     It was a redundant question, but it was all he could think of
to say.
     "No."
     "You were."
     "Yes.  And so were you."
     Mulder directed his gaze at Godwin.  "I don't know what you're
talking about."
     "I know you were one of hers.  Tanny didn't know I knew. . .I.
. ."  Godwin swallowed.  "I wanted her for Christmas.  I wanted to
spend the time with her.  And she wouldn't have me.  She didn't
want me.  Not then.  So I found out why."  It was such a petty
thing, so small.  
     So important.
     They stared at each other a long time.  
     "Are you sure Chris wasn't one of hers?"  Mulder's voice was
soft and desperate.  
     Godwin closed his eyes, felt the unfamiliar tears again.  Men
don't cry.  "I'm very certain.  Chris was gay."
     He felt Mulder's eyes boring into him.  Godwin got up and
poured himself a drink.  On second thought, he poured a second
glass full of Glenfiddich for Mulder too.  
     Mulder took it, swirled the clear amber liquid around in the
glass.  "The killer didn't know."  Mulder said.  Godwin could
almost see the wheels turning in his brain.  "Unless there's some
reason the killer wanted you quiet."
     Godwin shrugged.
     Mulder nodded and drank his whiskey. 
     "Why are you here?"  Godwin asked.  
     Mulder put the glass down on the coffee table.  "Because I
thought it wasn't Chris.  But I had to know.   I didn't know if you
would help me.  But I thought. . .I thought I would ask."  He
stared at Godwin.  
     "Your father died recently."
     "Not too recently.  7 months ago."
     "Recently.  Violently."
     "Yes."
     "My wife died 8 years ago.  I didn't give much thought to
family before that.  I had my work.  I thought it was enough.  Your
father lost his wife.  She left him."
     Mulder said nothing, stared at Godwin to ask why he would know
so much.  
     "I suspect that until my wife was diagnosed, I would have made
a good match for your father, for all the men in that world.  But
that. . .I remembered why I'd married Katie.  And I had a son.  A
young son, in his first year of high school.  A son who didn't
understand.  I discovered. . ."  Godwin stared at his glass.  "I
love my work.  But I found out I love my family more.  Your father
didn't find that out until the end of his life.  Did he?"
     The question came as a surprise to Mulder, who was ready more
to hear a monologue than to be given questions.
     "I don't know."  Mulder replied.  He swallowed.  No, Scully,
it has nothing to do with my father.  It has nothing to do with
him.      
     Oh God, it had everything to do with his father.  
     His father did know.  In the hogan.  His father knew now.
     "I didn't want that world anymore."  Godwin's voice was soft,
breaking through Mulder's contemplation.  "And I had a son I could
be proud of."
     "Even though he was gay?"
     "Chris hid it, because he knew. . ."  Godwin closed his eyes. 
His face drew up.  "Because he knew that I hoped he would follow me
into the CIA.  No one. . .nobody knew.  Oh God.  If I. . .I wish he
hadn't been. . .I wish the world had known."
     Mulder felt the scotch course through him, warming him. 
Alcohol is a depressant, he reminded himself, staving off thoughts
of drinking more.  He waited in silence for Godwin to speak.  
     "You were her favorite."  Godwin's voice was soft.  "Weren't
you?"
     Mulder swallowed.  Stared at his shoes.  Did not answer.
     "She loved you, I think."  Godwin analyzed.  "She wanted to be
with you."
     Mulder closed his eyes.  "Maybe.  I want to think she did."
     "Why haven't you been killed?" Godwin's voice was rough.  "Why
aren't you dead?"
     Mulder shivered.  Cold again.  The bird's wings fluttered like
a bumblebee's hum.  He heard the voice again. Godwin waited for him
to speak.  Sat and waited.  "He doesn't want me dead."  Mulder
found his voice.  "He's been. . .playing with me."
     "You were Tanny's favorite and now you're his."
     It was too much.  Favorite.  A toy stolen from one child and
held by the next.  Mulder could not open his eyes. 
     "What has he been doing to you?"  Godwin was trying to keep
emotion out of his words, but it leaked through. Horror and pity.
     Mulder opened his eyes, because he had to.  He could feel the
cold lubricant sliding down his rectum and into his anus.  
     "You look like. . .like six different kinds of hell."
     "It doesn't matter."  Mulder swallowed.  He shook his head. 
"I'm dealing with it.  If I catch him it ends. . . Sir.  I think.
. .What do you know of Tanny?"
     Godwin watched Mulder, decided not to press the issue.  It was
not his confidence.  He would let Mulder fall back into the things
he knew.   He did not have to give the question large amounts of
thought.  The answer was obvious. "I know that she was the only
choice for a man in my circumstances.  She was the only one
discreet enough."
     "Do you know who trained her?"
     Godwin shook his head.
     "Ian Long.  That's why she was used by. . .people like you. 
The killer. . .the killer has. . .he can get anywhere.  He reads
everything.  Knows everything.  I don't. . .I'm not a player. You
know that.  This man is."
     "You could be a player."
     "I don't want to be."
     Godwin nodded.  "What do you want?"
     "I need to know the contacts.  I need to know. . .Tanny was 16
when she became Ian Long's slave.  I need to know who in that
household could have. . .borrowed her."
     "Is that the killer?"
     Mulder nodded.  "Yes.  That's the killer. I think.  I need. .
.I have to know.  It's got to be someone well protected."
     Godwin ran his tongue across his teeth.  Considered this
knowledge.  "I can get that information."  He stared at the figure
sitting across from him.  "I want to know what's going on, please."
     Mulder nodded.  



     Mulder had a bike chain for his bathroom door.  He hoped it
would give him peace of mind enough to sleep.  A bike chain and a
burger cradled in his arms, and his apartment waited on him to
return. 
     The fish were probably considering evolving far enough to get
their own food out of the fridge.  And he would probably have to
listen to phone messages for 20 minutes. 
     He did not realize that someone was in the room at first. 
Then he saw the figure in the shadows.  He pulled his gun knowing
it was not the killer.  Too direct.  Too forward.  He was awake and
conscious.  When he flicked on the light, Scully was sitting there
in the dark.  Her face was pale and her eyes dilated.  
     Oh fucking great.  He swallowed, holstered his gun.  She
wasn't startled.  She'd known he would be nervous.  She still
hadn't said anything.  What the hell was Scully doing here? 
Wonderful.  He'd managed to avoid her the whole day and here she
was.  Why was she here?  Her gaze was level as he dropped his
purchases into a chair.
     "I fed your fish."  
     "Thank you.  Why are you here?"
     Mulder sat down.  She had a thick, padded envelope in her
hands.  
     "I. . .went to get some coffee.  When I came back, this was on
my desk."
     "More hate mail?  Are you sure this isn't Monty from
accounting.  You know he's shy."  
     Mulder's teasing didn't even draw a glimmer of light from her
eyes. She tossed the envelope across the coffee table.  "Here."
     Mulder picked it up.  One thing in the envelope.  One thing
alone.  
     He pulled out the sheet of paper.  Laser printing, small tight
laser printing.  
     It described last night in intimate detail.  How the killer
had slipped scopolamine into Mulder's coke.  Then come in, with
Mulder asleep, and how he had given Mulder Fentanyl.  He described
the scars on Mulder's leg from a gunshot wound.  He described
Mulder's body.  He detailed the rape from his aspect.  How Mulder
had vomited.  Pushing Mulder's torso up onto pillows.  Using KY to
prepare Mulder's anus.  The feel as his dick slid into Mulder's
unwilling body and the face in the feathered mask whimpered for
Tanny and drooled.
     Tanny's favorite Secret was now his.
     Mulder put the paper down, hands trembling.  He could not
speak.  His breath was hot in his mouth and his chest ached.  Hot
and cold.  He shivered.  He didn't hurt me.  He didn't hurt me.  It
doesn't matter.  He put paper in the envelope.  He would not think
about it.  Could not.
     "I called the hotel and found out you were there.  I talked to
the maid.  She said there was vomit on your sheets. You were one of
Bonet's clients."  Scully's voice echoed a deep betrayal.
     Mulder had no response.  
     "You should have called me this morning.  Oh God.  Mulder."
     Mulder wrapped his arms around his chest.  Stared through his
window to the lights and shadows of the street outside.
     "He didn't hurt me."  Mulder heard the words, didn't know if
they were his.
     The sentence cut off any words Scully might have been planning
to say.  She stared at him, incredulous. 
     "He raped you."  
     Mulder stood and walked to his desk, to where he could stare
out the window.  
     "Why didn't you talk to me before this?  My God, Mulder, he's
been sending me coy little notes. . .Why didn't you tell me about
all this?"
     She was close and cloying.  Mulder whirled before he could
stop himself.  Whirled and stared at his partner.  "Tell you what? 
That I went to Tanny's house and she spanked me?  Tell you about
the anal plugs and the leather belts and the cock straps and the
spreader bars?  I couldn't tell you.  You know I couldn't.  I
couldn't say anything to anyone.  Sexual deviance, enough to get me
dismissed from the Bureau."
     "You knew I wouldn't tell.  You knew I wouldn't let anyone
else know."
     "I didn't want you to know."
     "But I had to deal with it.  I had to be there and watch you. 
I had to talk to Skinner and I had to. . .God, Mulder, do you think
I enjoyed making you go to Crane?  Do you think. . ."
     "It wasn't your fucking problem.  It was mine.  It was my
problem.  And I could handle it."
     "It stopped being your problem the moment I got a note and you
knew who had sent it."
     "I didn't think you were in danger.  You're not in danger."
     "He's killed 6 people and I'm not in danger?"  
     "You're not in any danger until he's tired of using me.  He
won't. . .he won't kill you because then I might do something
stupid."
     "Like talk?"  Her voice was barely above a whisper.
     "Yes.  Like talk.  He knows I value you.  He knows you're the
only. . ."  He could not say it.  "He won't kill me because. . ."
     Mulder closed his eyes.  "He just wants to dominate me.  To
control me body and soul.  He doesn't want me dead, at least not
until he's used me up and I'm so tired of his games that I don't
care."
     "And when you feel that way. . ."
     "You're dead."  The reality of what games he had been playing,
of what exactly was going on, hit him suddenly.  The fact that
another man had forced his way into Mulder's hotel room and raped
him while Mulder hallucinated and vomited, pounded into his brain. 
"I'm dead.  But he knows I'd do anything rather than let you die." 
He finished, collapsing into a chair.
     "How much evidence have you hidden?  How much of your reports
is bullshit?"
     Mulder shook his head.  
     "You've impeded an investigation.  How do you know Martin
wouldn't be dead if. . ."
     "If it wasn't Martin it would be someone else.  And *I* have
all the facts and the killer hasn't been found."
     "You're one person.  This is a fucking murder investigation. 
This is more than you."
     "Oh come off it."  His voice was sharp and he stared at his
partner.  "What the fuck has anyone else come up with?  Spooky
writes his reports and they're gospel and everyone follows Spooky. 
I'm the fucking perfect analyst.  If I don't think something it
doesn't get thought.  King fucking found that out, didn't he?  He
disagreed with me and Skinner slapped him down pretty fucking
quick."
     "So what now?"  Her voice was quiet.
     "What. . .what are you going to do?"
     "I don't know.  What I should do is call Skinner and tell him
what I know, get you put into protective custody."
     "You'd be there with me.  And the killer would still be out
there. . .Tanny. . .Scully, I didn't call Tanny; Tanny called me."
     Scully frowned, not understanding.  She knew this meant
something.  Was not sure what.
     "Tanny knew to call me.  Had been told about me.  Her clients.
. .Chris Godwin wasn't her client.  Mark Godwin was. . .My God,
Scully you've been insisting that this is about my father and I've
been denying it.  But it fucking is.  It all goes back to the fact
that my name is a part of the shadow government.  If I sold
insurance my name would still be circling in that cesspool. . .the
killer is obviously part of that circle.  Skinner can't help us. 
Protective custody can't help us.  This UNSUB *is* part of the
government.  I don't know who he is or what, but he has a lot more
power than Skinner or you or I dream of having.  Tanny was sold
into this world, into the household of a man in this world who had.
. .appetites.  And she learned and she moved in that world.  She
got her clients from that world.  Godwin went to her because he
knew that she was the only acceptable choice for a man in his
position.  Someone gave her my name, someone in that world.  She
charged me little or nothing."  He took a deep breath.  "I don't
know why.  But I know our killer is in that world.  And he. . .he
wants to possess me.  Body and soul.  Because I was Tanny's.  And
maybe because of who I am."
     Scully took a deep breath.  Released it.  She remembered a
time when she had laughed when someone had torn the counterfeiting
strip out of her twenty.  She remembered a time when she had no
idea who could have dug up the bodies of two teenagers.  Oh God,
she remembered a time when she had autopsied bodies and been the
dutiful daughter and Melissa had just seemed like a silly flake.
     Those days were gone.  Is ignorance bliss?
     Most people walked among whited seplechars and never knew what
foulness lurked within.  But someone named Fox Mulder had shown her
the inside where dead bodies reeked.  The truth.  That's why she
went into the FBI.  She sat down.  It was cold in the apartment. 
Mulder's fish were swimming to the top of the tank, hoping Mulder
wouldn't know that Scully had fed them. 
     "Where've you been?"
     "I drove around."  Mulder swallowed.  "I went and saw Godwin."
     "You look like hell."
     He nodded miserably. 
     She glanced at the bike lock.  "What were you going to do?"
     "Lock myself into my bathroom tonight."
     Scully felt herself smile.  "Been there.  Done that."
     "I hope he can't change shape.  One neat trick from this guy
is enough."
     "I wish you had told me.  I wish you wouldn't do this to me. 
It hurts."
     "I'm sorry. I couldn't."
     Scully nodded.  She didn't want to accept.  She wanted to yell
and to rage.  She wanted to be mad at him.  "How long?"
     "Was I her supplicant?  6 years now."
     "That's where you were headed to Christmas Eve?"
     He nodded.
     6 years.  "This started before the X-files, then."
     "Ummm. . .yeah."
     Scully nodded.  "What are we going to do?"
     "Godwin's trying to find out possible names for me.  I'm going
to talk to Mrs. Tower tomorrow, if she's still around."
     "You need to find someone to talk to. . .about what. . .about
what happened to you."
     Mulder shook his head.  
     "It's there.  It's going to always be there."
     "I know.  If I kill him, then it will be all right."
     "No, it won't."  Scully sighed, changed topics. "Has he been
in your apartment before?"
     "Yes.  Two nights ago that I'm sure of.  I think he had me on
Scopolamine then."
     "You can go to my apartment."
     Mulder shook his head.  "I can't go there.  It isn't safe for
either of us.  He might want to prove what he can do, even when. .
.when I'm not alone."
     "You don't need to be alone."
     "I'm okay."  
     She sighed.  "What are you going to do?  Curl up in the
bathroom with your burger special scared to death of every sound?"
     "He won't hurt me."  Mulder swallowed.  
     Scully stared at him.  "He did hurt you.  He's already hurt
you.  It doesn't matter if there's a lot of tearing or not.  He
made you have anal intercourse without your consent.  That's rape. 
And that hurts."
     "SHUT UP."
     "Mulder, you know about this as well as I do.  You know that.
. ."
     "Scully, just shut up.  I can't. . .I don't have time for
this."  Mulder swallowed.  "Please, shut up.  I can't. . .I can't
think about it.  He didn't hurt me."
      "Come home with me.  I don't think you should stay here." 
She was kneeling before him, her eyes on his face. "Come home with
me.  It's going to be okay.  Come with me."
     He didn't want to.  He wanted to stay right where he was.  No
sleep.  Just stay awake.  Watch TV.  Do reports.  
     Lock himself into the bathroom.
     "I've got the work up on Chris Godwin."
     Mulder glanced at Scully.  "What have you got?"
     "I've got my autopsy report.  A few of the tests have come
back."
     "I need them."
     She shook her head.  This was blackmail.  "I don't have time
for this, Scully."
     "Neither do I."  She was up, in his bedroom.  Getting his
things.  Trundling through his drawers until she found his
underwear.  He should be up, yelling at her to stop it.  Leave him
alone.  Stop pestering him.  Leave him alone.  Stop taking
liberties.  But he was so fucking tired.  He was too tired to be
angry anymore.
     The killer hadn't hurt him.  He had to believe that.
NC-17 material, including B&D.  Do not read if underage or you do
not like such material.

Usual disclaimers.

Mistress  14/21 
by Amperage



     He had no idea how long he'd scrubbed, how long he'd been in
the tub.  He'd spent an hour in the hotel bathroom this morning. 
Scrubbing and trying desperately to feel clean, to not feel the
killer on him and he spent at least that now in Scully's glassed in
shower, head under the water, steaming hot, almost not to be borne.
He heard the pizza boy at the door and got out of the shower,
drapped himself in sweats, thick thermal socks on his feet.  Hair
wet and slick and he was tired through to his bones.  Scully had
two plates on the coffee table, two cokes, and the autopsy report.
     He sat on the floor, flipped through the report.  
     "Was he drugged?"
     "No."  Scully flipped through the report.  "No, no drugs."
     "Anything odd at all?"
     "The blood."
     "The blood was for me.  He was telling me this one was a
Hollywood production.  But he knew I wouldn't see it."  Mulder's
voice was numb.  "Chris was pretty.  It made me feel. . .like I
wasn't special."  It was more than he'd meant to tell her.  "Was
there anything else?" 
     Scully watched her partner carefully for a moment then opened
the box and put two large slices on a plate, handed it to Mulder. 
"Don't get pizza sauce on it.  The little clerk who runs off the
Xeroxes doesn't ever believe it when I tell her it's tomato sauce."
     "Well, usually it isn't."  Mulder allowed.   
     "He'd had sex."  Scully put herself a slice on a plate.
     "What?"
     "He'd had sex right before he was killed."  Scully stared
levelly at her partner.  "There was some semen on his penis.  It
had been washed, but not well.  Just kind of brushed with a
washcloth."
     Mulder stared at his partner.  "Anything else?"  He could
barely keep his face calm as thoughts coursed and raced through his
skull.
     "Different knife."  She added.
     "You're sure?"
     "Of course I'm sure."
     "Anything else?"
     "Well, the blood had anti-coagulants in it.  To keep it from
clotting before our killer played modern artist with the walls."
     "He'll never get in a good gallery."  Mulder swallowed. "Chris
Godwin was gay."
     Scully swallowed.  "You don't think that. . ."
     Mulder nodded.  "Where's your cordless?  Never mind."  He
picked up his cell phone, dialed, waited. "Director
Godwin?  This is Fox Mulder?  Pick up sir.  Oh fucking shit."
     Scully watched him pace, muttering obscenities to himself.
     "Director Godwin?  This Mulder.  Sir.  I was wrong.  I was
assuming some things that I've found out aren't so.  Look. . .I
don't know exactly what I'm dealing with, but sir, you're in
danger. . .yes.  I don't know.  You can't stay where you are sir. 
Look. . .No. I don't know.  I haven't really thought through it. 
All I know is that you can't stay home.  I don't know, really,
where you'll be safe.  Call your offices.  Don't. . .don't trust
any *one* person.  Trust your underlings.  Trust grunts.  Go
through the system to be safe.  All the safeguards and checks you
can find.  Please sir.  The killer hasn't ruled you out of
contention.  And you're helping me.  Look, call me back after
you're somewhere safe.  Go to a safe house.  With a guard.  I don't
know sir.  Please, sir.  Please."  Mulder's voice was hurried and
desperate and almost panicking.  "Please sir."
     After a moment he hung up the phone.  Breathing hard. He
collapsed back onto the floor and put his head against the seat
pillows of Scully's sofa.  "I thought Godwin was safe.  I thought
he was."  He closed his eyes.
     Scully tried to follow this.  "I'm missing some crucial piece
of information."  She managed.
     Mulder raised his head, mentally backtracked.  "Chris Godwin
was gay.  No one knew, according to his father.  So he wasn't
promiscuous.  If he fucked somebody, it would be somebody he
trusted.  I'm not perfectly certain, but I think it might be
someone that Mark Godwin trusts too."  He smiled sadly.
     "What're you thinking about?"
     "Nothing." 
     Whatever it was, it was not nothing. Scully didn't press.  
     "I hate him."  Mulder's voice was flat.
     "Who?"  The even, dead tone stunned her.
     "Chris Godwin.  First, I hated him because he was prettier
than I was.  Because maybe I wasn't special to Tanny.  But I was. 
I still hate him.  His father thought he was more important than
anything else in the world.  Chris knew his father loved him.  I
hate him."  Mulder slid his untouched pizza into the box, left the
room.  Scully stayed where she was.  
     
     Power.  Sex is a game.  He lay on the couch, staring at
forgettable tv, not drinking anything that hadn't been canned. 
Scully'd gone to sleep, finally, leaving him here on her couch with
a blanket and the TV remote.  This was a one night proposition. 
Mulder knew that.  He had to go somewhere else.  He didn't know
where.  The cuts on his hip, the killer hadn't mentioned them.  The
killer didn't want Scully knowing about them.  
     He pressed his face against the couch back.
     And when he found the killer what would he do? 
     If he shot their UNSUB it would be fucking evident who had
done it.  Change to another type of bullet?  
     Change guns?
     There are people you can take out and people you cannot,
though.  There are people who can die and it will not garner any
but the standard regulation notice.  There are people who die and
it requires in depth investigation.  Some pigs are always going to
be more equal than other pigs.  
     Mulder's pig was one of the most equal.  Tower's widow knew
her husband was bi, and the killer was bi.  Tower's wife also bed
hopped.  She might had fucked her husband's killer sometime in the
past and not known it.  
     He shuddered, felt nausea grow in his stomach.  The feel of
the man's touch and the pain as cock had met rectum, as he had lain
in his own puke, sobbing and not able to do anything, returned.  
     His mouth was dry.
     Cotton mouth, surprised it hadn't happened before, he
assessed,and took a sip of cola, focussed on the TV.  
     The answer hit him and he felt like a complete idiot.  Big
deal.  Find out who the UNSUB is.  Unless They've completely got
Their heads up each other's butts, They'll know.  One of Their
members has been killing others of Their members.  Terrorizing
anyone with a predilection for paddles.  And Mulder guessed that
the number of men in positions of power in DC who liked to have
beautiful women domesticate them was slightly higher than the norm.

     It wasn't satisfying in any way.  But it would have to do. 
     

     He had to jog.  3 am and he wasn't sleeping.  A run.  The key
from Scully's door substituted for his own.  Old trick.  Lace the
key from the door where you leave your junk into your jogging
shoes.  
     One key, laced in.  You never feel it.
     He let the inanities of tricks learned take precedence in his
mind, anything to numb thoughts of things he really didn't care to
remember on this cold, crisp morning.
     He managed to get the door open without thought, and slide out
without waking Scully. 
     The streetlights illuminated his world in distinct circles of
brilliance.  At epoch, the light was daylight sharp.  Noon with
sharp shadows.  At the fringes, you ran in grey ether, seeking the
next circle of light.  His feet pounded with unceasing regularity
and he smiled when the burn set in.  He ran, this night, the way
he'd always gotten yelled at for running--full, flat out bore, full
speed ahead, no pauses, no pacing.  He was trying to exhaust
himself, not get the longest distance or the best workout.
     His breath made small puffs of condensation as he breathed. 
He was vulnerable out on this street.
     Mulder glanced around.  He'd never felt vulnerable jogging
before.  He was an FBI agent with hand to hand training from
Quantico.  He could take care of himself.
     No he couldn't.  He couldn't stop himself from being raped in
a hotel room.
     He couldn't stop it when a killer had fondled him.  
     Fondled him.  At least the rape. . .the rape had been between
two grown-ups.  Right now, feet pounding on the  sidewalk, peering
through the darkness, looking for malignant faces, the fondling
seemed worse.  Because you fondled children.  Children.  And the
killer had fondled him, taking pleasure in the heft and weight of
Mulder's genitals.  With excruciating gentleness.
     When he was eight, he remembered, there had been some tests. 
He didn't remember what for.  Medical tests.  What he remembered
was a doctor.  A urologist?  making him take off his pants.  What
he remembered was the way doctor made him lie down so that a
catheter could be inserted to get a cleaner urine specimen. What he
remembered was the feeling as someone held his penis in latex
gloved hands and the humiliation, the horrible sensation of shame. 

     He wanted to throw up.  Mulder watched on the edges of his
vision for strangers, lurking in the shadow.  A stranger whose face
he could not remember and whose voice was laced with the edges of
birds' wings fluttering.
     He'd thought Tanny was there.  He'd thought Tanny could get
him out of it.  But Tanny was dead.
     Tanny always would be dead.  That was that. 
     Tanny couldn't get him out of it.
     The killer. . .
     He looked down at his feet, pounding, pounding, pounding. 
Tried not to think of anything at all as sensations pushed at the
envelope of his consciousness, tried to explode into his mind.  He
would not give them that leisure.  He could not.  Could not think
about it.  Or what had happened.  The killer hadn't hurt him.  
<<"He did hurt you.">>
     If he admitted that he admitted. . .he admitted lots of things
he couldn't afford to.
     It was easier to keep the pace now.  The burn was gone and he
was in the long, slogging stage.  Running too fast, running as fast
as he could, like he could leave his thoughts waiting at a
streetlight and outrun them, outpace them so far they would never
find their way back to him.
     

     He was tired and nauseous and the lights on in Scully's
apartment made him actively want to vomit.
     He went up the steps, into the hallway and knelt to use his
key.  The door flung open.  Scully had her gun.  She lowered it
even as she barraged him with questions.  "It's four in the
morning.  You shouldn't have gone out jogging.  Not alone.  And you
didn't tell me.  I woke up and you weren't here.  It's dangerous
out there.  You don't know where the killer is.  Mulder, I can't
believe you did this.  I came within an inch of going out to find
you or calling the police."
     Mulder pushed past her and sat in the living room.  Her words
were all rushing together and, now, exhausted, he could not follow
the fear in her voice.  He sat on the floor, panting.  
     Scully followed him in.
     Too much.  It was like being a child, scolded for staying out
after curfew.  No.  Like being scolded after you went somewhere
without telling them.  He'd been twelve.  But his mother had wanted
to know where he was.  All the time.  "No.  You'd have to be
alone."  He could see the fear in her eyes.  Of his being alone. 
Because they took Samantha.  And this time they might decide they
wanted Fox too.
     She opened her mouth to continue to the barrage.
     "I went jogging. If I want to go jogging, I can."  He paused. 
Hot and sweaty and thirsty and exhausted.  "I couldn't think and I
couldn't sleep and I just wanted to run.  I stayed close."
     Going in circles and circles and circles around her block.
     He was getting mad now.  It hadn't erupted immediately. 
Endorphins aren't good for anger.
     "You're not my keeper.  You're not my mother.  I can jog
anytime I want."
     Scully sat down on her couch.  Stared at him silently.  "No
you can't.  And you know why."
     "Why?"  Mulder had to ask.  Had to spit it out like the pit of
a cherry.  "Why?"  Why you fucking bitch?
     "Because, damn it Mulder, we already know the killer wants to
dominate you.  How do you know he wouldn't hurt you when you were
out jogging.  That's an activity that gives you pleasure.  How do
you know he wouldn't want to stop that pleasure?"  Her voice was
growing shrill.  "Because I'm worried about you.  Because I didn't
know where you were.  I hoped you were out running.  But I didn't
know."
     "Where did you think I was?"  He didn't want to be rude and
sarcastic and this angry but there it was.  "Where did you'd think
I'd gone?  Out to Godwin's house to shoot him because he's a better
man than my father?  Out to the local Motel 6 so that my new lover
and I can have a little privacy?  Were did you think I was?"
     "I thought you were jogging."  Scully answered calmly. 
Fucking woman's trick.  Be all upset and then when you get upset,
they start acting perfectly calm.  One of the worst in a woman's
arsenal and it infuriated him that she would use it now.  "I
thought you were just out working off some of your tension.  But I
didn't know.  I thought you might be trying to hurt yourself."
     Mulder stared at his shoes.  Pulled up his knees and put his
forehead against them.  "Fuck you.  I was out jogging." He snarled.
     "It's too dangerous."
     "I am not going to let him destroy every. . ."
     "Mulder, right now, you've got to worry about your safety. 
You've got to."  She had wound down now.  Ready to make up.
     But Mulder wasn't.  Was he?
     He wanted to rage and fight. But later.  Right now he was too
tired.  Right now all that was left in him was exhaustion and an
abiding desire to sleep.  The anger was there, but it hovered like
a yellow and red rim at his thoughts.  
     "How was your run?"
     It was amazing.  Every woman Mulder had ever known really well
had that trick of changing emotions like trying on a new hat.  They
sent you into orbit and then just sat there, staring at you when
you stood on the launchpad to join them.  He glanced up.  "It was
a fucking run."
     "How far did you go?"
     "I don't know.  I don't have a pedometer.  I think 10 miles."
     She nodded.  Knowing the distance was excessive.  
     "You need to take a shower.  Then you can sleep in my bed."
     "Scully, half of fingerprinting already has bets on. . ."
     "I'm already up.  I'm going to get some work done."  She
didn't let him finish the tease.  "Okay?"
     He nodded.  Numbly finished taking off the shoe with her
apartment key on it.

     
     His body was limp, like a rag doll.  Mulder stared at the
sunlight streaming onto woodgrain floors and did not move.  There
was coffee.  He heard a computer whine and the clack of keys.  
     He did not want to get up.  And he knew enough to know that it
didn't matter this morning. This morning there were soft white
sheets and soft smell of a woman.  He could lay on this bed in
comfort until it grew old.  Mulder drew his knees to his chest. Let
his eyes flutter shut.  Just for a moment.  

     
     They lay curled up, spoons in a drawer, Tanny on the outside,
her body snug against his.  The night was long, but the bedclothes
were heavy; the fire was well-banked and did not cause bad dreams. 
When he woke, everything was softly illuminated, no place for his
mind to envision unpleasant things.  He was sore and tired and the
tear tracks on his face were fresh.  But it didn't matter.  Now
there was only solace in the fresh, rough sheets, the heavy velvet
comforter over them that protected so gently, so well, against
chill.  He was at peace, and all was right with the world.

     
     He stumbled out of bed and into fresh clothes.  Blue jeans and
a sweatshirt.  Tennis shoes.  He'd used a razor, cut apart one of
her disposables he'd found in the trash.  Used it to cut and cut
and now he felt purified.  Put the razor and the pieces in his bag
where she would not find it.  Would never know.
     Scully was still at her computer.  With fresh donuts.  "My
neighbor got me some."  She told him.  "She thinks I've got a man
over."
     "Don't you?"'  Mulder wandered into the kitchen, found the
bakery box, a mug.
     She didn't answer, considering reports and datum.  Boring,
boring stuff.  
     He came out, eating a donut, sipping at his coffee.
     "You look better."  The comment was said without rancor or
condensation, merely stated as though Mulder had been sick with the
flu and was now feeling human again.
     Mulder stared into his coffee mug, embarrassed.  "Has Godwin
called?"
     "Not yet.  I'd've woken you."  Scully promised, leaning back
in her desk chair, turning to observe her partner.  "Is he going to
use your cellular?"
     "He should.  Unless he's like one of our ubiquitous informers
and he just knows everything."
     "You haven't thought about contacting X?"  Scully asked,
taking off her glasses, rubbing the bridge of her nose.
     Mulder took a long sip of coffee.  "No," he said when he was
finished.  "I don't. . .how do I know it's not him?"
     Scully blinked at this.  "Well, he *was* the one who
approached you. . ."  She mused.  She was joking, but as she stared
at Mulder's face, she realized that he was not.  Oh.  She gazed at
her own creamcheese filled pastry.   "What are you going to do if
Godwin gives you a name?"
     "I don't think I have to do much.  Just pass it on."  Mulder
finished off his maple filled longhorn.  
     Scully nodded. She wanted badly to ask him to talk to someone
at a rape crisis center.  She wanted badly to tell him that he
would have problems later on if he wasn't willing to accept what
had happened to him.  She did not.  He knew that too, even if he
wouldn't admit it to himself.  
     

     He stared at the television, tried to focus on the cartoons. 
He remembered he'd had one night at a hotel, one safe night.  And
there had been cartoons.
     Mulder frowned.  Listened to Scully's fingers tap.  He had
nothing to do but sit here and listen to Scully's fingers.  Feel
like her godson left with Aunt Dana while his parents went out to
an expensive restaurant.  
     Idly he picked up a file left on the coffee table.  He'd been
raped.  He'd been raped and the killer had done it to let him know
he couldn't be free.  
     He should be upset and depressed and nervous.  He wasn't. 
Mostly he just wanted to forget it had ever happened.  He knew that
would not happen. Mulder wondered, idly, what the killer fantasized
about.  With him.  He suspected that it started with this and ended
with Mulder as a sex slave.  With Mulder subservient, fully
domesticated.  That was the expression.  Domesticated.  Mulder as
a sleek house cat, living in his master's will until his master
tired of him and killed the unwanted pet.  
     It was the fantasy of a man without power.  
     Mulder sighed.  Rifled through the folders again.

NC-17 material, including B&D.  Do not read if underage or you do
not like such material.

Usual disclaimers.

Mistress  15/21
by Amperage




     Godwin was brief.  "I have a name.  Where are you?"
     Mulder swallowed.  "Safe."
     Scully was staring at him.  Watching, nervous.  Tense.
     "I need to know where you are."
     "Cellular conversations can be easily monitored."
     Godwin sighed impatiently.  "Meet me at the bar where you met
your mentor."
     "All right."
     "Wear comfortable clothes.  And warn your partner that you're
going to be gone overnight, and not to come with you or follow you.
You're going to be okay."
     "Why will I be gone?"
     "Someone wants to talk to you.  That's all I can say."  The
phone clicked and Mulder was left staring at his cellular.


     He sat at the bar, sipping on a beer.  Staring at faces.  
     "You ready?"  Godwin asked, staring at Mulder.
     "I think so."  Scully had been pissed and upset, but Mulder
hadn't really cared.  In the end she'd taken out his stitches at
her kitchen table, using her manicure set and agreed with his
evaluation that he didn't have much choice.  She was worried.  And
Mulder couldn't blame her.  He'd have been worried if Scully were
going into this situation.
     Godwin nodded.  Mulder threw down payment for his beer and
followed the CIA director out of the bar.
     Godwin had a bucar and a driver.  A big Crown Vic with darkly
tinted windows.  "I feel like I'm in a Godfather movie."  Mulder
commented, approaching the vehicle.  
     Godwin smiled grimly and opened the front door.  "Sit in the
back."  He ordered.  
     There was someone in the back seat already.  Mulder didn't
much like the way this was turning out.  He wanted out of the
situation, and he wanted out now.  He turned to leave and was faced
with a man he hadn't noticed before.  "Easy Agent Mulder."  The
bearlike creature who probably had more than his fair share of
Neanderthal genes, said holding up his hands.  Said it like Mulder
was an escapee from a mental hospital.  "Calm down."
     Godwin was out of the car now.  "Don't," he said, shaking his
head.  "Mulder, no one's going to hurt you."
     "I'm not going anywhere with anyone.  Godwin just give me the
name and I'll take care of it," Mulder spat out, staring around the
parking lot desperate for someone to see him, to intervene.  He
felt like screaming and making a break for it.  
     Godwin took a deep breath and released it.  Stared behind
Mulder at the open door of the Crown Vic.  "Stueben, we don't. . ."
He began, then broke it off.  "Don't do this to him."
     Mulder whirled, hating to take his eyes off the burly figure
trying to shepherd him into the car.
     Stueben, a tall, skeletal man with flaming red hair had a
syringe in one hand. 
     Oh fucking hell.  Mulder tried to duck sideways.  Oh fucking,
fucking hell.  Someone in the parking lot.  "Help!"  He screeched,
putting his head down, barrelling out.  Strong hands grabbed him.
     "Fox.  Don't make us call the ambulance again."  He heard the
voices.  
     "NO!"  He screamed and kicked, watching as a third linebacker
came out of the driver's side to join the battle.  Godwin still
hadn't joined the fray, was trying desperately to decide what to
do. 
     He couldn't think and he couldn't breath but he managed to
kick out at the kneecap of the skeleton.  The skeleton went down,
shrieking.
     Godwin was speaking then, something about ambulances and
hospitals and he had his cell out.  "You bastard!"  Mulder
screamed, finding someone to focus his rage on as the driver
tackled him, pinned him to the cold, wet pavement.  Skeleton was on
the ground, screaming as well.  Godwin was talking to someone. 
something, something found him. . .off meds. . .something something
involuntary. . .
     The sting of the drug was sudden and sure and the Neanderthal
was administering it a vengeful expression on his face.  Mulder
didn't know what it was, only that his arm was on fire and his ears
were buzzing.  He could not breathe.  His face was hot and he
couldn't breathe.

     A blanket.  A thick wool blanket.  His shoulder hurt, and
there was something cold on it.  Cold and straps.  He had a head
ache and the rest of him simply ached with a soreness that had
soaked into his bones.  Dislocated shoulder.  He knew how those
felt.  Long experience with how those felt.  Mulder squinted,
sniffed well-worn leather against his nose. Drool.  Thick, cotton
pillowcase.  
     Dark woods.  Grey light.  A shadowy figure.
     Cigarette smoke.
     "You're awake.  Sorry about your arm."
     He tried to talk but it was an effort.  "No, you're not."  He
managed finally.  
     "Actually.  I am."  The voice was old and craggy.  Mulder had
thought the man was Cancer man.  But it was not.  "We didn't want
to hurt you.  We simply wanted to. . .talk to you.  On our terms."
     Mulder didn't feel like moving.  He continued to lay under the
warm, scratchy blanket and squint through the shadows.  "Where am
I?"
     "Safe."  
     Oh, that was a great answer.  Mulder frowned.   
     "Do you want something to drink?"
     He *was* thirsty.  "Yes."
     There was a waterglass and a beautiful, simple pitcher.  The
man rose from his leather wingchair and poured a half glass for
Mulder. 
     "Sit up."  The man commanded.  
     Mulder pulled himself up. Put the ice pack on the floor.  A
sling on his arm.   He sat a moment with his eyes closed as his
ears buzzed and he could no longer distinguish orientation, as
everything seemed to tilt.  The blackness filled him for a moment,
then settled and everything sorted.  He opened his eyes and held
out his right hand for the waterglass.
     "You disabled one of our people."  The voice told him
smoothly.  "Not permanently, but I'm told that once you dislocate
a patella it never does quite as well again."
     Mulder drank his water, did not say anything.
     He handed back the glass empty.
     "Do you want more?"
     Mulder shook his head.  "I need to pee," he said irritably.
     "In a moment."
     "Why am I here?" He asked, putting his head against the back
of the couch, looking out a window at a brick wall.
     "Because we wish to speak with you."
     "Who'se we?"
     "Your shadow government perhaps?"
     "Why did you drug me?"
     The man smiled.  "Obviously, so you won't know where you are. 
We hadn't counted on your hysteria."
     "I wasn't hysterical."
     "You weren't?"  The man smiled at him condescendingly.  "And
I suppose you weren't raped either."
     Mulder stared at the man.  Did not say anything.  Sat staring.
This man had seen him naked.  This man's yellow fingers in gloves,
examining him.  Oh God.  Oh God.  He felt his stomach churn.  He
closed his eyes.  Said the only thing he could think of.  "Does
Godwin know?"
     "Do you want him too?"
     "No."  For some reason it was important.  It was terribly
important that Godwin not know.
     "Then he won't.  Would you like to pee now?"
     Mulder nodded.  He pushed off the couch and tried to stand. He
was dizzy and uncertain but shook his head as the man stood to help
him.
     There was a room off this one, a toilet and a pedestal sink. 
The floor was mosaic tilework, golden patterns on the floor.  The
man stood beside the sink.
     "Do you mind?"
     "Actually, yes.  I can stand outside if you'd prefer.  But you
may not shut the door."
     Mulder blinked.  "What do you think I'm going to do?"
     "I don't want you fainting and cracking your head open. 
There's nothing I haven't already seen."
     Mulder swallowed, tried to get his throat to work.  It was so
fucking hard to swallow. He turned to face the toilet.  The figure
retreated to just outside the panelled door.  

     When he was finished the man walked him back to the couch.  
     "Why did you hurt yourself?"  The man asked carefully.
     Mulder blinked.  Said nothing.
     "Do you want us to tell your partner?"  It was not a question
but a carefully veiled threat.
     "Why would you?"  Mulder asked.
     "If we felt that it was information she needed."
     "She doesn't need to know about it."
     "I'm sure you feel that way.  So why?"
     "Because it distracted me from the pain I was feeling.  Enough
so that I could behave normally."
     The man waited.  For more.  
     "Because it feels good."  Mulder admitted in a whisper.
     A nod.  "The killer is trying to dominate you completely. 
Against your will."
     "Yes."  Mulder did not even try to nod.
     The man in his nice, expensive, conservative suit, picked up
a box of cigarettes, shook one into his fingers.  Lit it with a
small silver lighter.   "Does cigarette smoke bother you?"
     "You know my father smoked."
     "Very true." He inhaled deeply, blew smoke out into the room,
tapped ash into a silver bowl.  "Your killer is dead."
     It should have filled him with joy.  Instead Mulder nodded.
     "Godwin contacted Mr. Long's heir.  When presented with the
facts you accumulated, he knew who the killer was.  We've disposed
of him."
     "Did you get the book?"
     A frown creased the aging brow.  "Book?"
     "He had Tanny's book.  She kept the fantasies of her clients
in a small leatherbound journal."
     "I didn't know. . ."
     "No one did.  She showed it to me once.  I think I'm the only
person.  He also had her apartment bugged.  To take pictures.  I
haven't been to her apartment to see how he did it, and I suspect
that the camera is long gone.  But there were photos.  Black and
white photos."
     The man smushed his cigarette.  Lit another.  "We haven't
found either, but we'll look for them both."
     Mulder nodded.  "I'd like to know when you find them."
     "Of course."
     "What was his name?"
     "Who?  The killer?"
     "Yes."
     The man waved a hand as though this were completely
unimportant.  "Don't worry about it.  He's dead."
     Mulder stared around the small, well-appointed room.
     "We set you up with Tanny.  It was a short-lived experiment. 
We quit paying for you soon after you entered the X-files."
     Mulder nodded.  He'd guessed as much.  "Why?"
     The man shrugged.  
     "Why did you bring me here?  You could have accomplished all
this by phone."
     "I wanted to talk with you face to face.  To establish your
mental state."
     "And now?"
     "I don't find you suicidal.  Self-destructive and if I
released that information you would find yourself in a hospital."
     Mulder did not question why they would want to know if he was
suicidal. "Will you?"
     "No.   Not at this time.  You've done a great service.  I know
that it was self-motivated.  But you have.  You pieced things
together very well." A puff of smoke.  It was growing much darker. 
"I just wanted to see you.  I met you when you were small.  You and
your sister."
     Mulder stared at the man, not daring to ask any questions.
     "I also wanted you to be safe until we collected the murderer.
We have.  We'll drug you and return you.  Will you take everything
voluntarily?"
     Mulder considered this,  "yes."   
     "I must apologize, but we don't quite trust you to. . .take
the drugs.  It'll have to be a shot."
     Mulder nodded.  
     "Your choice.  Vein or butt."
     Mulder stared at the man and felt like bursting into laughter.
     "You'll have to roll up my sleeve."  He said, trying for a
straight face.  Oh God. This was simply too much.








     "Hi."  Scully.  It was Scully.  He stared at grey light. 
Scully.  They had Scully.
     His own ceiling stared back at him.  Grey light.
     Mulder shivered.  
     "Godwin called and told me you were here.  How the hell did
you disolacte your shoulder?"
     "Long story."  Mulder swallowed.  "what's. . ."  he frowned.
     Scully didn't understand what he wanted.  He pushed himself
up, on his one good elbow.  "The light?  Is it still Saturday?"
     "It's Sunday morning."  She took advantage of situation to put
more pillows behind his head.  "We're having a snow storm. 12
inches.  Everyone's going to be snowed in."
     "Oh."
     "I take it your meeting didn't go well."
     "No.  He's dead."
     "The UNSUB?"
     "Yeah.  I. . .they wanted to drug me to take me to see
somebody and I didn't want to."  Mulder waved it away.  "I kicked
someone's kneecap out and I think this was revenge after I was
already in la-la land."  It felt like a terribly long speech. 
"It's over."
     Scully's eyes searched his for the truth of it.
     "I'm hungry."  He added.  "Are all the take out places
closed?"
     She smiled and shook her head.  "No.  Not yet.  The snow just
started.  How about Mexican?"
     "Quesadillas with extra guacamole."  Mulder ordered.
     "You better lay off the fat.  You're not going to be jogging
for a while."
     "I haven't eaten in 24 hours.  Shut up, Scully."
     She grinned.  
     Mulder smiled.  It felt like a heavy pressing against his
chest was suddenly gone.  He could breathe.  He could think.  His
body was filled with a nervous tension borne solely of relief.
     Everything was all right now.



     He had to get up to pee.  The pills made him muzzy.  They'd
even left him pills with clear, explicit instructions for use. 
Such kindness.  Tylenol 3 for pain and a muscle relaxant that
Scully called Flexeril.  The Tylenol 3 he didn't have to take, but
Scully's predictions that he would need it were accurate.  The
Flexeril he did have to take.  At least the Klonopin was out of the
picture for a while.
     Had to get up to pee and the snow was falling outside. 
Falling and falling and falling and it was all he could see from
the glow of streetlight.  
     Back and forth.  He was nauseous, just a little, and the cold
beer in his fridge sounded almost good.  If he felt better, he was
sure it would sound good.  He walked the smooth, burnished floor,
wondered why his apartment seemed so small.  He had at least Monday
off.  Tuesday, probably, too.  Snow.  Snow.  Snow.  Soft, cold
snow.
     He wished he was with Tanny tonight, sitting with her under
warm blankets, thrilling to her velvet touch.  He wished he felt
the wool of antique oriental carpets under his bare skin.  
     He wished for a lot of things that would never be.  
     And it snowed it snowed it snowed.

     Snow muffled everything.  When he woke, the only sounds were
of his aquarium bubbling, aerating the water.  If he focused more
closely, he could hear the hum of the refrigerator.  He could hear
the soft purr of the aquarium heater.  The sounds of his radiator
clanking as it blew warm air into the apartment.  The straps of the
sling were already chafing his skin.  Keep your arm immobile, let
the muscles in your shoulder heal.  Mulder already knew all that. 
     Snow. It would shut the city down.
     He had food in the refrigerator.  A quart of guacamole.  And
some bread he'd thrown into the freezer a long time ago so it
wouldn't mold while he was away.  A bag of fajita fries and a bag
of fried mushrooms and cheese sticks were all collecting ice
crystals in the freezer.  A crisper full of his favorite fruits. 
Scully never could understand why he wasted 4 dollars on a honeydew
melon from Brazil.  Because it tasted good.  Tuna and vienna
sausage and corn and cream of mushroom soup sat in the pantry.
     If only the apartment didn't seem so small.  
     There were even five Foster oilcans if he wanted to get
roaringly drunk.
     But then the apartment would seem even smaller.
     
     He hadn't had time to read the new Umberto Eco yet.  It was
sitting under a pile of something.  And the Calvin and Hobbes
collection someone had given him for Christmas.  If the phones and
the electricity agreed, he could surf the web, cross referencing
interesting articles endlessly.
     Mulder sat up in the muted darkness.  The bathroom light was
on.  He checked his clock.  Late.  4:30 a.m.
     Or it would be late. 
     Today, it didn't matter.
     He lay back against the bed.  Wondering why he was depressed. 
He had a day off with nothing to do.  The killer was dead. 
Everything was going to be all right.
     Except nothing was ever going to be all right.
     There were numbers in the phone book for women to call.  Free.
Confidential.  Trust us.
     Men don't get raped.
     Mulder padded over to the window, stared through the blinds at
a dark world.
     Scully was asleep in her own bed.  
     Everyone was asleep in his or her own bed.
     Mulder was up.
     Vaguely nauseous.  Was that the side effect of one of the
pills?
     He was alone.
     Finally.  Completely and utterly alone.
     He didn't want to watch TV.  He didn't want noise to intrude
in this quiet world.
     He sat on his couch.  
     Alone.  
     We are born alone and we die alone.   
     And right this instant, he Fox Mulder, was alone. 
     Scully was asleep.  Tanny was dead.  
     Mulder lay back on the couch, stared at his ceiling.  He had
nothing to do and all day to do it.
     Go back to sleep.  He was tired after all.
     But he didn't want to go to bed.  He wanted to stare at the
ceiling.  
     Tanny had said he was beautiful.  
     Mulder knew he had never felt beautiful with another woman. 
Sexy.  A stud.  But not beautiful.  Beautiful was a gentle thing. 
Beautiful was a quiet, soft thing.  And he had never felt beautiful
before.  Cute and knew it.  Gorgeous even.  But not beautiful.